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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25072246">Crimson Star</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunHerre/pseuds/JunHerre'>JunHerre</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Marker/pseuds/Red_Marker'>Red_Marker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Crimsonverse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ableism, Airplanes, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - World War II, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Breathplay, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Disabled Character, Caretaking, Chains, Coercion, Crash Landing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Dehumanization, Dieselpunk, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Echolalia, Edgeplay, Eldritch, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Fighter Pilots, Fluff and Angst, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gas Masks, Grooming, Gun Violence, Handcuffs, Holding Hands, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Knifeplay, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masochism, Medical Examination, Medical Trauma, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Military Homophobia, Military Kink, Military Science Fiction, Military Uniforms, Mutilation, Nazis, Necrophilia, Neurodiversity, No Lube, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Human Genitalia, Object Insertion, Past Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pilots, Pregnancy Scares, Prisoner of War, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Queer History, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Romantic Angst, Romantic Gestures, Sadism, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Slurs, Soldiers, Soviet Union, Spitroasting, Tentacle Rape, Uniform Kink, Vomiting, War, War Crimes, Waterboarding, Watersports, Weird Biology, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:42:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>70,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25072246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunHerre/pseuds/JunHerre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Marker/pseuds/Red_Marker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reich's deployment of an experimental, seemingly immortal fighter pilot is rising hell on all fronts. When the Allied forces manage to capture him alive, he's up for the worst time of his life.<br/>Under the extreme circumstances, the pilot is forced to go beyond his limits, assess his allegiances and make an unlikely friend.</p><p>  <em>Despite the dark and graphic nature of Crimson Star, this is not a minority misery story. </em><br/><em>Please be mindful of the tags and warnings.</em></p><p>Author's Twitter : @RedMarker10</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character(s)/Other(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Crimsonverse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851676</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>85</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>224</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Fallen Star</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunHerre/gifts">JunHerre</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Please note that this story, while being a work of fiction, discusses some real world topics to a very graphic degree.<br/>I, as the author, encourage you to be mindful of your comfort and safety, and to proceed accordingly.</strong>
</p><blockquote>
  <p><strong>If you feel uncomfortable reading about any of the following, this story might not be for you:</strong><br/>- World War II and related historical events<br/>- War crimes and poor treatment of prisoners of war<br/>- Violence and torture<br/>- Sexual violence<br/>- Medical trauma related to physical and sexual abuse<br/>- Racism<br/>- Misogynism<br/>- Homophobia<br/>- Ableism<br/>- Religion used in an offensive way<br/>- Substance abuse<br/>- Brainwashing and conditioning<br/>- Bodily fluids<br/>- Disordered eating<br/>- Necrophilia<br/></p>
</blockquote> <br/><strong>Be safe and enjoy at your own volition!</strong><p>Out of heavy personal preference I want to let everyone know in advance that Crimson Star doesn't, and never will, feature scat.</p><p>This story has been created in artistic co-operation with JunHerre, the original creator of Ritter and an immensely helpful and fun second set of brains.<br/>All questionable writing choices belong to me, Red_Marker.<br/>To immerse yourself in the full creative experience and/or send me anonymous hate, see: <strong>twitter.com/RedMarker10</strong></p><p>For additional lore tidbits and illustrations, a companion archive is occasionally updated, beware of spoilers!<br/></p><blockquote>
  <p>archiveofourown.org/works/25556377</p>
</blockquote>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>To see the potential triggers or squicks you want to avoid, see notes at the end of the chapter for a summary.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>FALLEN STAR</h1><p> </p><p>A photon laser rips through the night sky. Artificial lightning. Aerial fight breaks out, the echoes of heavy fire cascading over the landscape like thunder.</p><p>”Ah, my Dove has returned”, a man whispers, adjusting his telescope.</p><p>The craft, glimmering in midnight blue and star silver, is gliding through the void effortlessly.</p><p>”Let’s get down from here, comrade! If they get too close, we’re done”, a large soldier by his side insists, almost begging.</p><p>”Kolya...” The investigator talks softly, shifting his gaze away from the telescope.</p><p>”My Dove would never fire at us. I’ve never heard of him targeting civilian settlements. He’s just here for the enemy fleet. Besides, it took me a full hour to get up here. You can get down with Borodin if you want to, but please come help me back down after this, would you?” The investigator smiles, turning back to his telescope.</p><p>”Whatever, comrade. You keep stargazing at your precious Dove, we’ll come get you and the equipment back down once this is over”, the soldier, Kolya, exclaims and hurries to the hatch that’ll let him back to the tower’s stairwell and safety. The investigator nods, gaze locked onto the enemy plane again. It tears through the Allied fleet like a vengeful Valkyrie, a swastika scarred on its sapphire tail.</p><p>It looks incredibly light, ethereal, the glow of a blue flame radiating from within. And yet it’s a weapon, a nimble whip that lashes through the enemy formation.</p><p>The investigator can see the silhouette of the pilot when he maneuvers to dive below the Allied fleet. No helmet or a mask. Just a man in his uniform, mocking even Death herself as he slashes through the skies.</p><p>”Talk to me, Dove…” the investigator mutters. The plane glides effortlessly, tearing through resistance as it circles below its enemies. The fight is indeed getting very close. The investigator sees the plane’s gleaming nose turning towards him. The pilot glances at him, suddenly. At the church roof and the telescope. And the investigator looks back, whispering:</p><p>”Oh, Dove, I’m not a sniper.”</p><p>The whole universe sits very still, suddenly. The investigator looks at the pilot through the glass and knows, that the pilot is looking back. A shot rings out, tearing apart the silent moment. The plane is suddenly tilted, staggering like a wounded bird, sparks bleeding from its cut wing as it dives down too fast.</p><p><em>”Shit”,</em> the investigator breathes out. The plane comes crashing down fast, striking itself against a steep hill like a bird hitting a window.</p><p>”Shit! Borodin! Kolya! Get me down now! Forget the equipment, get me there <em>now!</em>” He grabs his cane and levers himself up hastily.</p><p> </p><p>”Careful, you senseless mastodon! <em>Careful!</em>” The investigator tries to haul himself up the tilted side of the plane, as Borodin hammers the shattered glass of the cockpit with the stock of his rifle.</p><p>”Want a hand, comrade? Don’t kill yourself over a bloody enemy, let me get you up there”, Kolya laughs and wraps his arm around the investigator, climbing up with him without much effort.</p><p>”Kolya, camera! Don’t waste time helping me around! Take all the photographs you can, but don’t open anything”, the investigator exclaims. He crawls to Borodin, who’s managed to hammer a hole in the cockpit glass and is now widening it enough to slip in.</p><p>”Let me go take a look”, the investigator suggests quickly. Borodin eyes him.</p><p>”Sure about that, comrade? Wouldn’t I be...”</p><p>”I need you to lift him up for me. Besides, I need to look at that dashboard”, the investigator assures, lowering himself carefully into the cockpit and kicking glass shards from the seat below him. The dashboard is slick and foreign, flickering dimly and displaying a warning about an overheating core.</p><p>”Kolya, get the camera here! We need a photo of this!” He yells, balancing his boots on the seat. In the dim, flickering light he can see that the pilot of the craft has slipped from his safety harness and partially on the floor and slumped down into an immobile bundle. The investigator slides down awkwardly, trying to fit on the seat without stepping on the collapsed pilot.</p><p><em>”Let’s take a look at you”</em>, he whispers, wrapping one arm around the man’s chest and the other around his neck to secure it. He feels a trembling breath in the pilot’s chest.</p><p>”Good. I’ll get you up from there, slow and careful”, the investigator mutters and starts lifting the unconscious pilot onto the seat. He’s surprisingly light, a lean, even boyish frame under the uniform. There is a bruise on the pilot’s temple but otherwise he looks almost pristine, paper-pale skin glowing eerily in the light of the dashboard. His eyelids flutter but stay shut.</p><p>”Shh, all okay, Dove. Let’s secure you really carefully now. Borodin? Hand me your scarf.” The investigator takes the scarf and fishes a notebook from his pocket. He rolls the notebook into the fabric, slides it behind the pilot’s neck and starts wrapping the scarf firmly enough to support but not enough to choke. Borodin keeps breaking off the glass carefully to make an opening large enough to lift the pilot through.</p><p>”Hurry up, comrade! We’ve got company!” Kolya yells.</p><p>”Who?” the investigator yells back, tucking the end of the scarf in place.</p><p>The pilot’s pale eyes flutter open, pinhead-pupils scanning the surrounding for a while before going unresponsive again.</p><p>”Yankees, I think!” Kolya bellows back.</p><p>”Well greet them for me and keep photographing!”</p><p>The investigator swipes the pilot’s white hair off his face. The pilot’s face is deathly pale, spotted with ashy freckles and eyes sunken into dark shadows.</p><p>”They signal they’re coming here, comrade! What do I do?!”</p><p>”Let them come and keep photographing, you buffoon! They’re not our enemy, and we don’t have much longer here!”</p><p>The investigator runs his gloved hand carefully across the pilot’s spine, muttering approvingly. He stops to feel the man’s lungs at both sides, and smiles when he finds them to function without suspicious wet sounds.</p><p>”They’re asking for you!” Kolya yells, and the investigator sighs.</p><p>”Tell them I’m coming! Borodin, help me up, would you? And see he keeps breathing. And support his neck. And get me a photograph of that dashboard.”</p><p>The investigator fishes the pilot’s peaked cap from the cockpit floor and places it back on, before reaching his arm for Borodin to help him up.</p><p>
  <em>”You keep breathing there, Dove.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The American commander is a tired but kind-looking man, whose face lights up in a surprised smile when the Russian greets him in English.</p><p>”Good evening, sir! Or perhaps morning. We don’t have very much time left here, would you allow me to explain the situation briefly?” The investigator straightens his coat and limps to shake the American’s hand.</p><p>”Sure”, the commander grunts, eyeing at the two odd Soviet soldiers working on the wrecked craft.</p><p>”I’m comrade Valeri, pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve been stationed to study and track, well… him”, the investigator waves his cane towards the wreck.</p><p>”We don’t have much longer before the core overheats. My comrades are working on gathering intel about the craft and recovering the pilot, sir. Once the photos are taken and he’s been secured, I’m happy to submit him and my expertise under your jurisdiction. We have...” The Russian glances at his watch.</p><p>”Maybe five minutes before the craft catches fire.”</p><p>”Shut the core down then”, the American commander grunts and rubs his temple.</p><p>”Jones, White, blowtorch the cockpit open. McMurphy, get that damn core shut down! And you, ask your men to step away.”</p><p>”Sir, wait! The craft’s rigged to self-destruct. Kolya, get away from there, please. My other comrade is monitoring the pilot, I request your immediate help extracting them, sir, and advise you to exercise caution for the safety of your men”, the Russian pleads softly, and puts his hand on the American commander’s arm.</p><p>”Kremlin is honored to offer you assistance with this endeavor, sir. Please allow my comrade and the pilot to exit safely. After that, my men can leave, and you can accept or withhold my participation in the information gathering.”</p><p>The commander eyes the foreign investigator slowly, eyes gliding over his expensive coat, devoid of insignias, his hunched form and leg braces, and his hands, more stained in ink than in blood.</p><p>”Okay. You can come. Your men have to find their way back though. Boys, get that damn night terror out of the plane!”</p><p>”Thank you, sir. Kremlin will greatly value your co-operation in these trying times.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Burlap is pressed tight against the pilot’s features, getting heavier and more moist with each breath.</p><p>The time he’s spent tied to this chair could as well have been centuries, but his racing pulse and the hum in his ears tells him it must be four-five hours at most.</p><p>He doesn’t need a new dose: not yet.</p><p>A clinking sound approaches, accompanied by the shuffling of Allied soldiers’ boots against the floor. The sound is muffled by walls, sure, but this is not a bunker or a military camp. Just a haphazardly arranged outpost of sorts, he guesses.</p><p>It takes eternities for the clinking to reach his cell.</p><p> </p><p>A door opens and a blinding light penetrates space and time and the burlap on the soldier’s face. He flinches away, pain searing into his optic nerves.</p><p>”Guten Morgen, Soldat.” A calm, almost gentle voice greets, closing the distance between them.</p><p>”How are we today, comrade? Planecrashed a little, stayed alive a little, got captured a little… Little blessings all around, wouldn’t you say?” The voice continues in German, slowly and clearly enough that the pilot understands every word despite the man’s accent. <em>Russian accent.</em> The hell is this man doing here? The pilot’s almost certain he crashed over British or maybe American troops.</p><p> </p><p>”The word on the field is, they got you once already, had you in cuffs and in their truck, and you pulled a pin from a grenade with your mouth.” The Russian says, weighing the allegation on his tongue.</p><p>Then, without a warning, the sack is pulled off of the pilot’s head. The burning light makes him yelp. Cold sweat breaks on his skin and time slows down to a desperate crawl.</p><p>There are no insignias on the Russian, just a rumpled uniform shirt. His legs are supported by metal braces and the blinding light glistens from them like from the edge of a sickle. He has two holsters strapped to his belt and in each, the pilot can detect the outline of a beautiful revolver.</p><p>Half a dozen Allied soldiers, maybe Americans, have gathered in the door frame, looking at their captive with thinly veiled malice and lust in their eyes. There is fear too, but he can see it wither with each heartbeat as he tries to shuffle away from the searing light.</p><p>The heavy, wooden chair he’s been tied to slows his attempts to a clumsy tilt. He rocks once, twice, the room sways and the Russian reaches his hand outward…</p><p>The chair sways for the third time and suddenly he’s in a hard decline, a fall through the air that takes ages, and just a heartbeat. Back of his head meets with the concrete floor and pain explodes through his skull.</p><p> </p><p>”This one has grit. Hmm, one of you, bring him back up for me, please,” the Russian chuckles and presses the tip of his boot against the pilot’s cheek.</p><p>”And hold him up for me, would you?”</p><p>The chair is hauled upwards. The mass of a large, unyielding soldier presses against the pilot’s back and a thick arm wraps around his neck, holding him in a loose chokehold.</p><p>The Russian looks at the pilot, smiling slightly.</p><p>”We don’t want any accidents this time, comrade. I am comrade Valeri, and we’ll get along just fine, ain’t that right, Ritter? Would you like it if I keep calling you that, or do you have a real name, comrade?”</p><p>The pilot spits, a bloody mist spattering on his chin.</p><p>”Look at you… barely even salivating there. The plane is down but you’re still high as a kite. Would you like a drink, comrade?” the Russian asks, smirking. There is a wave of chuckles among the soldiers, and one of them unbuckles his belt and looks at him with a challenging stare in his eyes.</p><p>The pilot doesn’t agree, doesn’t decline. What difference would it make, except maybe excite them more. His dry throat constricts and he lets out a wheezy breath.</p><p>”What was that, comrade? You want to be a piss bucket for the whole unit? Sure, maybe later. But we can’t have you pass out here, okay. Open up. Come on, open your mouth. We don’t have the whole day.”</p><p>Another soldier steps close, shoves his fingers inside the pilot’s mouth to wrench his clenched jaw open. He can’t bite, not even yell, and the man’s leather gloves scrape against his dry tongue.</p><p>”That’s a good boy. Now, just be a good boy and take your medicine.” The Russian shoves a handful of pills into the pilot’s mouth. They are bitter and tangy, and their surface is dry like sand or flour and sticks to his dry mouth. He can’t spit, he can’t swallow, and the bitterness makes him gag, but there is not enough bile in his guts to throw up. His eyes water and he coughs and wheezes but the pills don’t go up or down.</p><p>”Hmm, need a helping hand there, comrade?”</p><p>Suddenly there is a splash of liquid on the pilot’s tongue, and for a moment he actually thinks the Russian is pissing on him, <em>in</em> him. But the familiar sting of vodka comes through, flushes the bitter drugs down and moistens his dry mouth like rain from the heavens. He sucks on the flask, eyes half-lidded and cheeks reddening. If only they’d keep him in the haze of booze and drugs until he’d get the chance to escape or catch a bullet…</p><p> </p><p>”That’s enough, comrade. You need to use that mouth of yours if you want more. I do have everything right here, if you are a very good boy. Vodka? I have vodka. Pervitin? All you could hope for, right here… even a bullet, if you’re good enough. What do you say?”</p><p>”Fuck… You. What… did you give me?”</p><p>”Antibiotics. Painkillers. Medicine to keep you living and breathing and conscious for as long as I need you to be, comrade. I’ll shove a feeding tube down your throat and strap a piss bag to your leg if that’s what it takes to keep you with us. I’m not a monster, I wouldn’t let a prisoner die on my watch… Not unless there was an accident. What do you say?”</p><p>”Fuck… You...”</p><p>”Okay, then. We’ll talk in twelve hours. Sweet dreams, comrade.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>”Good morning, comrade”, the Russian, Valeri, greets. The pilot flinches, forcing his dry eyes open. If it’s been two, twelve or two hundred hours, he doesn’t know, but there’s now a hammering headache in his skull and a throbbing, shapeless need in his gut. He’s starting to get withdrawal, he realizes, and the realization makes him feel cold suddenly.</p><p>The chair’s now held in a sturdy loop of hemp rope hanging from the ceiling, making it impossible to push it over, the pilot observes slowly. His arms are tied to the chair from multiple points, stopping him from so much as trying to rub his wrists against sharp edges until they bleed.</p><p>”Would you like something to drink before we begin? Or perhaps more medicine? Your skin does look awfully clammy.. Are you in pain, comrade? Or perhaps...”</p><p>”Better than ever”, the pilot spits, letting out a hoarse whisper.</p><p>”Is that so, comrade? You don’t mind… <em>this?</em>” the Russian steps closer, leg braces clicking quietly, and turns on a flashlight.</p><p>The pilot screams, the white-hot pain flashing through his spine and lighting up all of his nerve endings. His back arches against the chair and he cries, without making much of a sound.</p><p>The Russian turns off the light abruptly and shoves its cool lens against the pilot’s brow. There is a thin coat of sweat beading on the pilot’s forehead and all color has been drained from his face.</p><p>”You’re right, comrade. Better than ever. No need to share the pills with you then, or the drink. All good. All good...”</p><p>The pilot looks Valeri in the eye, expressionless. He’s not going to beg.</p><p>”You are going to beg, comrade. Now, though, it’s time to take your medicine like a good boy.”</p><p> </p><p>Two American soldiers step into the room. Their clothes smell faintly of cigarette smoke, and when they press close enough to bend the pilot’s head back, he can smell the musky aroma of their hateful excitement.</p><p>”Letting all your Yankee friends do all the work, Valeri. Why? Because you don’t want to get your hands dirty? Or because you can’t? Why are they even letting you here? <em>A cripple?</em>” the pilot spits, before his mouth is forced open.</p><p>The Russian shakes his head slowly, and administers another dose of bitter pills inside the pilot’s mouth. This time there is no moisture left whatsoever. His mouth is so dry that the bitterness of the powdery pills burns him. The itching burn muffles him, takes his breath away, and he starts to choke, wheezing and inhaling his own dried blood and medicine residue.</p><p>”That won’t be acceptable, comrade”, the Russian notes softly. He starts unbuckling his uniform trousers as the captive gags and coughs. Little spots of light and darkness start to appear in the pilot’s vision, like flying above the sea on a starry night. Time slows down and his discomfort starts to fade as the asphyxiation dulls his senses. There is a Soviet insignia on the Russian’s belt buckle, a small, gilded sickle and a hammer on top of a red, enameled star. Or a multitude of stars, a nebula. A wreath of crops, too. His trousers don’t get much below mid-thigh, the leather straps of the leg braces strapping them firmly on. As if he was part of strange machine.</p><p>The pilot stares, imprisoned into the hazy moment that takes forever. All sound is incredibly quiet and painfully loud at once.</p><p>The Russian’s wearing a pair of simple, white boxer briefs. Strapped to his thigh, a half-full piss bag.</p><p> </p><p>The pilot gags. He whines, tears welling up in his eyes, heaves and drools, but fights against his reflexes. If he doesn’t drink up, if he spits out the drugs or resists, they’ll make him pay for it. Crawl on the filthy floor, maybe, and lick off all he failed to swallow. He does his best to stop gagging and lets the pungent piss flow down his throat and take the burning remains of the pills with it. Splashes well on the front of his uniform, soaking and dampening it. The American soldiers behind him are following the scene in fascination, their half-erections rubbing against the pilot’s back.</p><p>”I think you lied to me, comrade. I think you are thirsty”, Valeri whispers, leaning close to the pilot.</p><p>”Look at you, suckling on my piss-bag like a little whore. Do you like it, comrade? Do you like my piss so much it’s worth refusing water and vodka?”</p><p>The pilot releases the now-empty bag from between his lips, fighting against the wish to purge everything, and licks his tangy, salty lips slowly, shuddering.</p><p>”All good, comrade Valeri. All good.”</p><p>The Russian grins, beams at him like sunshine, and re-attaches the bag to its rubber tube.</p><p>”Happy to hear that, comrade. Now… How about we discuss you and your plane some more.”</p><p>”Fuck you, comrade Valeri”, the pilot breathes out and spits. The Russian grins, visibly delighted, and looks at the American soldiers. Their erections are still brushing against his bruised back and their firm grips are digging into his bound arms.</p><p>”Our German guest seems to be tired, gentlemen. Maybe we should leave him rest some more, and come chat some more when he’s gotten the chance to think about what he wants to share with us. Maybe bring your comrades too, I’m sure all of us have a lot to talk about with him.”</p><p> </p><p>Once the soldiers shuffle out of the room, the Russian leans close to the pilot once again, brushing his finger against the man’s piss-stained, cracked lips and the clammy skin of his cheeks.</p><p>”I do have your pills, comrade. All the flavors you could ask for. Pervitin, of course, but the other ones too. The ones that take all the pain away, and the ones that make it so sweet… Think about it, comrade. You think I’ve been sadistic? You know I have been keeping those Yankee boys off of you this far, don’t you? But I won’t keep that up forever. When they get their hands on you, and they will, comrade… Wouldn’t you like to be high, to make it just a bad dream? Or, a good dream...”</p><p>The Russian’s hand brushes against the pilot’s crotch, lingering on the man’s half-hard manhood before he turns to leave and picks up his cane from the door.</p><p>”Think about it, comrade.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There is a knock at the cell door. The pilot startles awake from his disoriented state and assesses the figure in the door frame. A red-headed young man, wide-eyed and wearing a medic’s badge, carrying a bowl. A wave of nausea hits the pilot instantly, splashing against his ribs and tightening his throat. He doesn’t want to know what’s in the bowl, doesn’t want this fucking guy even an inch closer than he is now.</p><p>”You must eat.” The medic says, hesitant to step closer.</p><p>”What?” the pilot groans, wishing he could fall back to the starless night of his dehydrated hibernation.</p><p>”The Russian says you must eat”, the medic repeats, almost shyly, and steps closer to the pilot, observing closely his every move as if he was a feral animal.</p><p>”Schnell, it’s getting cold. Otherwise the Russian will make you”, the medic half-whispers. The idea of eating the thing cold, whatever it is, makes the pilot want to gag. And the thought of a feeding tube…</p><p>”Let me go then.”</p><p>The medic shakes his head, biting his lip, and takes a spoon from his pocket.</p><p>”The Russian says we can’t let you go. Come on, otherwise...”</p><p>The pilot squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to look at the bowl and its contents…</p><p>A vaguely familiar smell comes through. A food smell, cozy and warm.</p><p>”How soon will I start bleeding from both ends, huh? Or is it<em>’truth serum’?</em>  Your ’truth serum’ ain’t worth shit, Yankee.”</p><p>”It’s just porridge, si… I mean, just eat, for God’s sake! Had it myself, it ain’t half bad!” There is a film of sweat on the medic’s brow. He’s clearly equally terrified of the captive and the potential telling off by his supervisors. He starts spooning the porridge like a haywire machine, hands shaking and a determined grimace plastered on his face. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even taunt the pilot. He completes the task in a hurry and scurries away.</p><p> </p><p>When the medic leaves, the pilot starts realizing just how badly he needs his fix.</p><p>He’s certainly not hungry now, and can easily do a good while longer without more to drink…</p><p>But damn, how he needs something to take the sharp, painful edge off from everything. He wishes there was something in the bowl, even poison.</p><p>Echoes from the corridor keep hitting him like a wall, a painful flash of light from his skull and down his spine.</p><p>The closed-off space around him, like he'd been buried alive, light-years away from the sky and air and freedom.</p><p>He doesn’t want to submit to it, but the black void, a feral panic, starts swelling up in his gut.</p><p>He wants to scream and tear himself free, wants to claw out his wrists…</p><p>Anything, to make it stop. Anything to return, get back to the blissful non-existence where there is no pain and no light, except the distant gleam of far-away stars.</p><p>But there is no way out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>”Feeling refreshed here, comrade?” There is a knowing smirk on the Russian’s face.</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are red and sore. Dry, dirty streaks run down his pale cheeks, and he’s bitten his lips bloody. He doesn’t say anything, just breathes raggedly and waits. The Russian has brought another chair, and takes a seat himself. He sits comfortably, adjusting his leg braces slightly, and lights a cigarette. The sting makes the pilot’s eyes water, not from the smoke but from pure craving. A group of American soldiers has taken positions at the edge of the room. Perhaps to gather information, or perhaps just to enjoy his torment.</p><p>The Russian leans closer and blows a puff of smoke against the pilot’s face. He smiles softly, eyes half-lidded, and lifts the cigarette close to the pilot’s face.</p><p>”Would you like a smoke, comrade? Belomorkanal too, fresh from the Motherland, not some tea leaves rolled into a Bible page.”</p><p>The pilot stares at the cigarette, captivated by the perfect, burning ring. He wonders, distantly, what’s going to happen next. If he refuses, will his captor light another one, and then another, and keep smoking there and blow smoke into his eyes until they fill up with tears? If he says he wants one, will the Russian put it out on his face? Bury the burning ring against his iris and press down until his vision is just a landscape of white pain forever? The Americans are shuffling around uneasily, impatient to put out their cigarettes too, no doubt. Breath is caught in his throat, he can’t answer.</p><p>”Ah… You don’t smoke, comrade. <em>Such a fine, Aryan young man you are.</em> Should have guessed...” The Russian slips the cigarette back between his lips and reaches out a finger to run it along the pilot’s jawline.</p><p>
  <em>”You must be quite the hero back home? When the war’s over, you’ll get a beautiful house up the street, huh? An upstanding home for an upstanding citizen. Tell me, comrade… Do you have a bride, waiting for you back home? Standing by the mailbox every day, perfect blue Aryan eyes glistening with hope and tears? And how about the children? The perfect, cream-white babies with light blue eyes, like yours? Do you think the state sends them to the best schools, to become scientists and officers? Have you thought about that, comrade?”</em>
</p><p>The pilot feels a cold, black terror filling his stomach. Something terrible is about to happen, he knows it. His heart starts to race, he can not think, just act. He throws himself forward and the chair tilts; just to yank violently back in its restraints, whipping his neck back painfully.</p><p>”Now, now...” The Russian gets up slowly, grabbing his cane to come stand next to the pilot, very close.</p><p>”We don’t want you to get hurt, comrade. What if the rope gave out? What if you cut the blood flow to your spinal cord for a moment too long? I could get you an iron lung. Spoon-feed you soup. Track your answers from an alphabet board, letter by letter… But I have to sleep at night, and I’d have to let our Yankee friends keep an eye on you then. You think you could trust them with that?”</p><p>The pilot doesn’t want to react but he does, screams and trashes against his restraints. His mind goes blank, he can’t stop screaming, he wants the Russian to put his cigarette out in his eye. Anything, to make it stop.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>”We’re going to play a little game, comrade. I ask you a question, and for each good answer, you’ll get a little prize. What do you say?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>There is an enamel cup in the Russian’s hand, cold enough that little droplets of moisture are forming on its side. He glances at the soldier who brought the cup, raising his eyebrow.</p><p>”You didn’t spit in this, I hope? Good.” He takes a sip himself and nods slowly.</p><p>The pilot licks his lips, painfully aware that he could use a splash of water or vodka, would a chance arise. But not like this.</p><p>The Russian, Valeri, chuckles.</p><p>”I’m not asking you to trade any national secrets to a cup of water, comrade. We’ll just… chat a little. A conversation.”</p><p>The pilot blinks. He’s pretty sure this is not a conversation. This is an interrogation.</p><p>”You crashed your plane yesterday. What can you tell me about the crash?” the Russian asks softly. The pilot’s not sure what he means.</p><p>”I remember my plane crashing”, he says slowly.</p><p>”Got hit, engine failed, started losing altitude rapidly. A plane crash.”</p><p>”The units recovering you mentioned you went down really fast, and gravitated towards a steep hillside. Not an accident, I take it?”</p><p>”Not an accident, no”, the pilot notes dryly. He should have aimed better, though.</p><p>”See, this is how we cooperate. Would you like a little water?” The Russian lifts the cup in front of him. The pilot hesitates, but the water smells like nothing and its sweet coolness radiates towards him. He empties the cup hastily, before anyone can play any cruel tricks on him, and then sets back to a half-curious silence. The Russian takes two cigarettes from his pocket, and lights one for himself.</p><p>”Not your first time self-destructing, if I’ve understood correctly? And not the first time failing to do so, either? Tell me, comrade... does it hurt, dying?” There is a genuine spark of curiosity in his eyes, or perhaps malice. The pilot blinks again.</p><p>”Less than failing”, he concludes. These Russian cigarettes… they do smell very tempting, a promise of nicotine and calm.</p><p>”So...” the Russian takes the unlit cigarette, rolls it between his fingers, then presses against the smoldering head of his own cigarette. It slowly starts to smoke and then lights up. He holds the cigarette close, almost near enough that the pilot could have it.</p><p>
  <em>”If I cut you open, comrade, what will I find?”</em>
</p><p>The pilot’s focus sways. His heartbeat rises and there is a buzz of electricity in his bound arms, but the smoke is filling his senses with a brief moment of bliss nevertheless. The Russian pushes the cigarette between his lips.</p><p>”Some Reich medical technology maybe? Glass vials, metallic pumps and rubber tubing? Do you think that’s what I’ll find, comrade?” He searches the pilot’s face for answers, placing his hand softly against the man’s uniform jacket.</p><p>The pilot’s breath hitches, and he sucks in more blissful cigarette smoke.</p><p>”Or machines? Maybe there are wires tangled in your gut, and if I make a cut right here...” The Russian’s hand slides ghastlily over his lower abdomen.</p><p>”Maybe all the wires will fall out, sticky and glistening. What do you think?”</p><p>The pilot inhales slowly and blinks. He looks down, slowly, and remembers the times he’s seen his own body like that, cut open and mangled.</p><p>”An experimental machine man, piloting an experimental machine…” There is a glint in Valeri’s eyes, as he blows a cloud of smoke on the pilot.</p><p>”Or maybe… Maybe there’s just blood and guts and gore, and the magic happens elsewhere. Maybe I’ll cut you open and there is, in fact, nothing special inside the infamous Ritter, and you’ll just lay there and watch as a crippled man holds your heart in his hand.”</p><p>The rush in the pilot’s ears is almost deafening, and he feels how his body runs very hot and very cold at the same time. The Russian stretches out his hand to take his almost-finished cigarette before it burns his lips, and leans back in his chair. The pilot can almost smell the heavy, coppery air and feel, how the lean hand slides along his exposed organs. A chill runs down his spine.</p><p>”Do you know what I think?”</p><p>”What do you think?” the pilot says, mirroring the man’s words more than asking.</p><p>”I think you could know a lot of useful things, comrade. Maybe, if you think about this very closely, you could help me figure it out. What kind of devices have you seen? What are the different pills and substances called? What do the surroundings look like, near your base? Maybe you have heard names: tacticians, commanders, technicians, doctors, researchers… The more you can remember and tell me, the sooner I can help you too, comrade.”</p><p> </p><p>The Russian smiles and adjusts himself comfortably in the chair. He takes a notepad and a hip flask from his pocket. He waves the flask and its contents splash around softly.</p><p>”I think you remember this one. The Russian painkiller, and a cure for broken hearts. Would you like some, comrade?”</p><p>Vodka. Sweet vodka… The pilot’s arms are growing numb and aching in his restraints and something in his body is aching so badly. He imagines the heavenly rush of alcohol, how it runs through the bloodstream and makes his limbs feel hot and alive. Buzzing, like at high altitudes in the cockpit. Making his head light and the world below so small and insignificant.</p><p>”Your craft… What can you tell me about the Nachtmahr?”</p><p>”We crashed”, the pilot says slowly, looking regretful. He’s biting his lip again, hard enough to draw blood.</p><p>”You must value your plane very highly”, Valeri notes gently.</p><p>”What is it like, to fly it? Can you tell me about its properties?”</p><p>”We are… perfect. Like a dream, like a lightning bolt. We don’t have to think, just fly”, the pilot half-whispers. Valeri nods slowly.</p><p>”I see… Flying must come very naturally to you then? How long did you train?”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes gloss over and a ghost of a smile flickers on his face.</p><p>”Always. Centuries. Just for a heartbeat.”</p><p><em>”Ritter.”</em> The Russian’s voice is sharper now, and the pilot flinches.</p><p>”A time frame. Also, could you tell me where you were trained?”</p><p>”Uh… Ever since I was very young. Don’t know where. Didn’t ask.” The man looks like he was slapped. His headache begins to worsen again, and he remembers he has to focus if he even wants a chance at the vodka.</p><p>”I don’t know where the parts come from. I just know what they do”, he admits.</p><p>”I know… they are not standard. We are very good.”</p><p>The Russian looks at him from head to toe, shakes his head softly, and pours vodka in the enamel cup.</p><p>”Comrade, we will return to this discussion tomorrow. Before that, I want you to think really carefully about the things we have already talked about. I do have booze and Pervitin for you. But if you don’t want to help me, I can’t help you either.” He lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip.</p><p>The pilot shivers, the damp uniform pressing against his skin too tightly. His face is pained but determined.</p><p>”Wait. We have destroyed over 700 units this far. Aircraft, armored vehicles, ships... We have tested how high we can go. All the way to the exosphere. At that altitude I started choking.” Sweat is beading on his forehead.</p><p>”Our reactor uses thorium fusion. It… it works for planes, but doesn’t make for a good bomb”, he spits and looks at the Russian wide-eyed. The Russian turns slowly towards him.</p><p>”Good boy”, he says, and writes a couple of quick notes.</p><p>”Such a good boy. This is the kind of cooperation that earns you prizes. Now, I’ll leave you to rest. Tomorrow, when I come back, I want to hear more. About this, and about the questions I asked earlier.”</p><p>The Russian stands up slowly and reaches in his pocket.</p><p>”Now, please open your mouth.”</p><p>The pilot does. He doesn’t hesitate, but somewhere in the back of his head he wishes this would be the moment where the Russian shoots him. It isn’t.</p><p>Valeri drops two pills in his mouth and tilts the cup to his lips.</p><p>The familiar, sharp sting of Pervitin hits him. Suddenly all is good. At least, for the next couple of hours. He’ll take that.</p><p>”It’s been a delight to chat with you, comrade. See you tomorrow.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>An experimental Axis pilot by the infamous name of Ritter crashes over enemy-occupied territory. He is recovered first by a Russian investigator tracking him, who then tags along American troops to study the secret behind his apparent immortality and advanced aviation technology.<br/>The pilot wakes up to find himself captured and bound. He’s interrogated by the Russian investigator Valeri, who forces a cocktail of substances on him and makes him drink urine. Later, the pilot is force-fed porridge by a medic.<br/>After revealing useful information in further questioning, the Russian investigator rewards Ritter with alcohol and substances.</p><p>To skip heavy non-con, jump straight to chapter 6.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Crimson-Spangled</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>To see the potential triggers or squicks you want to avoid, see notes at the end of the chapter for a summary.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Crimson-Spangled</h1><p> </p><p>The light in the room is dark and hazy. The pilot leans his head against his shoulder, content with the numbness he feels.</p><p>His limbs are heavy and dull, but he can still feel his fingers. Whoever bound him must have been very careful.</p><p>He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, but the situation feels bearable now. Pervitin has helped him think.</p><p>He knows what he’ll say, when the Russian comes back. He feels it’s enough for another dose, at least.</p><p>Maybe, if he shares smartly, it could be enough for a bullet.</p><p>He closes his eyes for a while, drifts to thoughts of flying through the clear skies again.</p><p>Soon, he tells himself. <em>Soon.</em></p><p> </p><p>”So, Pissfaggot...”</p><p>The pilot startles violently, snapping back into full attention. There are American soldiers in the room, and he can almost taste their anger and loathing in the air. He hasn’t seen them with their uniform jackets and guns before, but he does now. They are big men, and hateful. At least six of them.</p><p>”Where’s the Russian?” he asks, too quickly. A tall, mean-looking man steps forward and grabs his chin.</p><p>The man has dark grey eyes, a scar crossing his eyebrow, and he grins. A cold, cruel smile, creeping over his face like a gash.</p><p>”The Russian? <em>We shot him.</em> Got tired of his bullshit”, the man growls and spits in the pilot’s eye.</p><p>”He squealed when he tried to crawl away. Think you’re going to squeal too, Pissfaggot?”</p><p>The pilot gasps, pupils contracting into small, black dots. He feels out of breath, panic rising up in his chest. He grits his teeth.</p><p>Knuckles connect with his left cheek. A flash of white blinds his left eye momentarily, and he tastes copper before he even feels the pain.</p><p>One of the Americans pulls out a knife and cuts the rope between the roof and the pilot’s chair.</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee shoves him, hard, and his vision starts tilting rapidly, the ground approaching fast. He crashes, bound shoulder and arm first onto the floor, yelping, and the soldiers around him laugh.</p><p>”B… Bastards. Thinking you are tough. Shooting a cripple? Beating a bound man? Let me go of this fucking chair and we’ll see who’s tough”, the pilot screams, thrashing against his binds. Something in his wrist, between the floor and chair’s edge, shatters. His fingers go numb and his heart is about to burst through his chest.</p><p>The pilot sees red. Someone’s boot grinds against the back of his head. His cap is getting dirty. <em>His Cap Is Getting Dirty.</em></p><p>There is a kick. The pilot knows it is a kick because his body thrashes from the force and his head hits the ground again. He doesn’t feel the pain, just the rage. He screams and thrashes, and someone kicks him again. A rung in the back of the chair breaks with a horrible crunch. That could have been his spine.</p><p>”Heard you liked piss, Nazi dog. Like this too?” A boot meets with his face, and blood gushes out of his nose like from a broken faucet, filling his mouth and making it hard to breathe. Then, when he’s gasping for air, a stream of hot, pungent piss splashes over his bloody face, soaking his collar and hair.</p><p>”Bastards! Assholes! Cowards!” The pilot yells, squeezing his eyes shut. It stings, it stings so badly, and he can’t breathe or swallow without sucking in the repulsive mixture of piss and blood.</p><p>He can’t see, and his ears are ringing.</p><p>”Fight me! Let me go out like a warrior, bastards!”</p><p>Someone chuckles and leans over the pilot.</p><p>”You think we’ll just kill you? Guess again, Pissfaggot!”</p><p> </p><p>A haphazardly aimed blade rips the rope tying the pilot’s arms to the chair, and leaves a long, crimson trail in its wake.</p><p>His sleeve splits open and pain blossoms along his arm. But he’s free to move his arms now, and he grabs a Yankee soldier’s boot to pull him off balance.</p><p>A huge man, a bald soldier with a sleeveless undershirt, steps on his hand and grinds it against the floor with his heel. The pilot hears his bones groaning under the weight.</p><p>He wants to get his hands on these assholes, bite them, kick them to a wet, red mess… But he remains twisted to his side, legs bound against the chair and his upper hand crushed under this towering hulk of a man.</p><p>Another soldier opens his belt and starts pissing all over the pilot’s uniform. It’s hot for a brief moment, before turning cold and damp and sucking tight against his shivering skin.</p><p>”American pigs! You think you can break me?! Come and try, you cowardly assholes!” The pilot’s eyes are tearing up with rage and he bangs his head against the floor, crying and screaming.</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee crouches down next to him.</p><p><em>”I think we can break you”</em>, he whispers.</p><p>
  <em>”And if you even think about kicking me, I’ll slide this all the way up, get it?”</em>
</p><p>The man pushes the blade of a knife between the pilot’s knees and gives him a second to think about the threat. He doesn’t kick, and the blade glides down, severing the ropes around his legs.</p><p>The Yankee chuckles, and extends a hand to grab the pilot’s crotch. He gasps, thrashing against the sudden grab, and instinctively swings his leg to kick the man.</p><p>Someone stomps his ankle, pinning him down even further, and the Yankee strokes him harshly. It hurts and sparks something horrible in his gut, a worse kind of pain than anything they have done to him so far.</p><p>”You like it, don’t you? We’ll give you plenty to like, Pissfaggot”, the soldier hisses.</p><p>The pilot looks him dead in the eye and spits blood at the man’s face.</p><p>The Yankee wipes his chin and chuckles.</p><p>”I’d save that…” He gets up, kicking the chair from behind the pilot.</p><p>The pilot rolls on his back, gasping from the sensation of blood flowing back to his crushed arm. Stars are dancing in his vision, his heart feels ready to burst, and there is a terrifying burning in his stomach.</p><p>He knows where this is going and loses control of himself completely, screaming and cursing and banging his head against the floor until he tastes electricity and metal.</p><p>”Look at that, the Pissfaggot really can’t get enough of… of…” The mean-looking Yankee can’t bring himself to spit out whatever word is in his mouth.</p><p>He grinds his boot against the pilot’s groin and the pilot realizes distantly that he’s wet himself, a warm puddle spreading under him and soaking his uniform further.</p><p>The Yankee’s boot is digging into his flesh and the pilot lets out an involuntary little whine. His belly hurts bad, so bad he wishes these bastards would just kick him in already, stab him, anything.</p><p>”Nazi dog likes this! Don’t you, dog?” the Yankee exclaims, and a wave of cruel laughter echoes through the troops.</p><p>”He’s a fucking bitch in heat!” A Hispanic-looking man spits out.</p><p>”Bet you could fuck him like a fucking bitch too!” Another wave of laughter circles the room, and someone stomps the pilot’s other hand. Hard.</p><p>”Not so tough anymore, Nazi dog?!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>”Get it wet”, the mean-looking Yankee spits.</p><p>He’s sat on the pilot’s chest, making it hard to breathe and impossible to ignore the man’s thick, pulsing cock that’s been shoved in front of his face.</p><p>”Oh, and one more thing. You bite me and you’ll regret it, get it?!” The Yankee grabs a knife and forces it between the pilot’s lips and between his sharp, pearly teeth.</p><p>The pilot’s lip starts bleeding, a thin crimson line running down his chin, and the Yankee forces his jaws open, using the knife like a lever.</p><p>The blade of the knife is not deep enough that the pilot could thrust himself into it, it just lingers in his mouth, barely grazing at his palate.</p><p>The Yankee runs his gloved hand along the pilot’s temple before grabbing him harshly by the hair.</p><p>”Get. It. Wet”, he repeats, voice lowered to a dangerous growl.</p><p>The pilot stares at him with utter disgust, not being able to bring himself to the deed. He’s not going to do it, he’d rather take the pain than this.</p><p>A sick feeling slithers inside him and he starts to gag from the thought alone.</p><p>He’s been held down by at least five of these assholes, and they’re probably going to take their turns on him, no matter what… But at least he’s not going to help them achieve even an inch of that.</p><p>”American pig. Never”, he hisses and swallows all the blood and saliva he can, drooling and gagging still.</p><p>The Yankee pries his mouth open further, and thrusts in.</p><p>A wave of nausea hits the pilot when the cock starts stabbing against his throat.</p><p>He’s about to be sick and he can’t breathe, panic taking over as the invading flesh blocks his airways.</p><p>He tries to yell or turn his face away, but the Yankee just thrusts further, the knife wedged between his teeth and the hand grabbing his hair so tight his scalp almost goes numb from pain.</p><p>”Mmh, you feel so good like this. Your greedy throat can’t get enough cock, you Nazi dog. I should cut your throat open and fuck your trachea while you drown”, the soldier mutters, thrusting into the pilot’s mouth again and again.</p><p>A reflex takes over: the pilot emits a muffled gurgle and his stomach contracts. There is bile in his mouth, suddenly, and he still can’t breathe or swallow, and he feels his broken nose filling up with the burning bile.</p><p>Tears are streaming from his eyes and little, shining lights are dancing across his blurred vision.</p><p>”He’s fucking made for this…” The Yankee pulls hesitantly out of his mouth and the pilot turns his head on the side to spit and cough bile and blood as the knife’s pulled from his mouth.</p><p>”Fuck...” he gasps between his heaves.</p><p>”Oh, I will. I will...”</p><p> </p><p>Pain, the pilot would accept. Embrace it, even. He has fought, after all, as hard as he could.</p><p>Screamed and thrashed and given his all to not submit or cooperate.</p><p>He’d welcome a bash to the head now, to be lulled to the darkness while these bastards do what they’ve set themselves to do.</p><p>But there’s no bash, no darkness, and no end to this humiliation.</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee wraps his gloved hand around the pilot’s neck, not hard enough to choke him out completely, but still enough to keep his head down.</p><p>And then the bastard leans down, just out of reach of the pilot’s teeth, and whispers:</p><p>
  <em>”I’ll fuck you slow and sweet, until you scream, like the ladies do. And then, I’ll fuck you harder.”</em>
</p><p>A tongue runs along the pilot’s ear and he shivers, letting out a muffled groan.</p><p>His throat burns and his eyes sting, and he feels like being sick again, but there isn’t much left in his stomach.</p><p>The Yankee looks at his brothers in arms and grins.</p><p>”Anyone got cuffs? Ah, I knew I could trust you, Jones!”</p><p>The soldier, going by the name of Jones, steps off the pilot’s ankle and flips a pair of handcuffs open.</p><p>The pilot’s leg swings free and he aims a swift kick at the man in the shin.</p><p>The Jones bastard kicks him between his legs to retaliate, and the pilot’s vision goes blank.</p><p>The kick knocks the wind out of him and his muscles clench, but he can’t even curl up.</p><p>He lets out a little whine, trying to get air back to his lungs, as the pain starts to radiate along his fibers like a flare.</p><p>The Yankee bastards take their chance, twisting his arms above his head and cuffing his wrists. <em>Fools, as if simple cuffs would…</em></p><p>”Not so fast, Nazi faggot”, the mean-looking one hisses and strikes the pilot in his left palm, hard.</p><p>His hand is so numb from being crushed against the floor that the extent of the pain takes a while to register.</p><p>He tries to rip his hand free - and that’s when it hits him. A white-hot flash runs through his arm and he screams. There is a knife sticking out of his palm, nailing his cuffed hands to the floor above his head.</p><p>He screams so hard his ears start to ring, cries and curses and spits, and the Yankees around him laugh.</p><p>The mean-looking one grabs his wet trousers and yanks them down to his knees with the belt still buckled.</p><p>”You’re up for the ride of your life, bitch”, he growls, fumbling to pull down the pilot’s underwear.</p><p>”Are you guys seeing this?! He’s got the ass of a fucking dame. Hell, who’d have guessed the Nazi dog would hide this in his pants.”</p><p>The pilot’s ass is pinched hard, and the Yankee grabs it, hard enough to leave bruises.</p><p>The man gets up and grabs his ankles, assisted by the huge soldier nearby. All the thrashing and kicking is futile, helping the situation none, but tearing the pilot’s palm further, making it pulsate with pain.</p><p>He’s bent to a humiliating position, his white ass up in the air and his knees bent towards his shoulders, and these bastards, the huge soldier and the fucker Jones, are holding his legs in place.</p><p>”What a fucking sight to behold. Nothing better than conquered enemy territory, am I right boys?!” the mean-looking Yankee chuckles and pinches the soft flesh of the pilot’s ass again.</p><p>The others laugh, and the bastard spreads him on display.</p><p>”Such a pristine fuckhole, so tight and pink… Bet you wouldn’t be this neat if your own guys used you too. First time, Ritter?”</p><p>The pilot feels a sob going through his chest, but can’t stop it. A wail escapes his lips and tears start to stream down his cheeks.</p><p>”Wait… Your <em>first</em> first time?” the Yankee bastard above him asks slowly, grinning.</p><p>”Are you a fucking virgin?! He’s a fucking virgin, guys!”</p><p>Sobs are rattling the pilot’s body and his pale cheeks flush red from shame. He grits his teeth and shakes his head.</p><p>The Yankee’s fingers dig into the white skin of his ass and spread him as the man spits on his quivering hole.</p><p>”As if you’d count, Yankee bastard”, the pilot hisses.</p><p>”Am I dreaming?! I get to be the one who deflowers the Ritter?!”</p><p>The man shoves two fingers inside the pilot’s ass experimentally. He clenches down hard, tightening around the intrusion and lets out a wet sob, but the bastard just laughs, delighted.</p><p>”Such a tight little virgin hole… Too bad it’ll be ruined after this”, the Yankee murmurs and lines himself up for the intrusion.</p><p>He pushes against the pilot’s rim, grabs him by the hips, and starts forcing himself inside.</p><p>The pilot screams, the burning pain searing through his body like smoldering coal in his insides.</p><p>”Oh, Ritter… You’re such a filthy little virgin, grabbing my cock like that. He loves it! You love it, don’t you?! Fuck, I can hardly move!”</p><p>The pilot’s insides are on fire, the contracting pain exploding in his pelvis. He whines, trying to catch his breath, but the bastard just drives himself further, pounding into a knot of pain that makes the pilot see stars.</p><p>”You won’t close back up when we’re done with you”, the Yankee growls, grabbing the pilot’s hips tighter and burying himself all the way inside.</p><p>”You’ll be left with a sloppy, loose hole that won’t clench back up, you know that?”</p><p>”That’s… That’s not true”, the pilot sobs.</p><p>A whole new kind of pain is blooming up inside him where the Yankee keeps stabbing him. It makes jolts of electricity run through his legs and takes his breath away.</p><p>”Hmm, but it sure is. You’ll end up with a loose, bleeding wound, like a common whore. Why do you think the ladies have to… wear a rag under their clothes?” The man groans and pauses for a breather.</p><p>The pilot starts to thrash again, but his struggle is no good, besides driving the Yankee’s cock deeper inside him and stabbing him with a fresh wave of odd, throbbing pain.</p><p>There is something wrong inside him.</p><p>Maybe something is broken? Maybe the Yankee is right and his body is indeed ruined somehow?</p><p>A tremor runs through his body and his muscles tighten, clenching around the invading cock, and the Yankee grunts with pleasure.</p><p>”Fuck, you’re good.”</p><p>The man drops his taunts and starts driving himself into the pilot’s resisting body again and again.</p><p>A fresh burst of sharp pain hits, as the pilot feels something tearing. Suddenly, the motion is getting easier. The thrusts gets slicker, and he realizes he must be bleeding.</p><p>Each stab hits something inside him, something much more sore than the tear, and the pilot’s eyes widen with terror. He can barely comprehend the paralyzing sensation, it’s lighting up all his nerves and making his limbs incredibly numb and light. Breath gets stuck in his chest, he can barely inhale at all. The pilot whines, squeezing his right hand into a fist. His back arches against his will, the only thing keeping him in this humiliating position being the Yankee bastard holding his hips with a vice-like grip.</p><p>The feeling grows so intense the pilot wonders if he’s about to die. His chest constricts, his vision blurs, and the pain is so bad it’s almost good. He hopes this means he’s dying. It must, he can barely follow what’s happening in his surroundings any more…</p><p>”Well look at that”, the Yankee pants, cupping the pilot’s face in a mockery of a caress, then laughs breathlessly.</p><p>”He likes it so much he’s about to lose it. The Nazi bitch in heat...” He digs his nails into the pilot’s hip, hard enough to draw blood, and runs his other hand over the pilot’s belly. Then he stops, raising his brow in surprise and delight.</p><p>”Well I’ll be damned… I can fucking feel myself through his insides! How sick is that?!” The Yankee squeezes down on the pilot’s lean stomach and starts thrusting violently against the grasp.</p><p>The pilot feels it too, his soft insides giving in to the intrusion and the Yankee’s cock stabbing against his belly from the inside.</p><p>It feels so wrong, so unnatural that he starts to scream again and thrash against the hold. The Yankee grunts, eyes screwing shut, and buries himself to the hilt inside the pilot’s struggling body. A sickly heat spreads inside him and, suddenly, the assault stops.</p><p>”Well aren’t you good… Too good for your own good”, the Yankee mutters and withdraws. His cock slips out, and a stream gushes out.</p><p>The pilot gasps. There’s… The Yankee… The bastard spilled it inside him, and he can feel it splashing against his guts.</p><p>”No! No! I want it out, don’t leave it inside me...” he sobs, unable to curl up around the sickly feeling that’s creeping in his belly.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>”Out? No, you’ll be grateful he gave it to you, and you’ll thank me afterwards too”, the Jones guy says, with a soft voice laced with malice. He’s given his position at holding the pilot’s quivering leg to someone else, and stands above him, stroking himself through his uniform trousers.</p><p>”Respecting authority and the chain of command is key, but I guess a Nazi dog like yourself would not understand that...” He unbuckles his belt and frees his member that, to the pilot’s horror, seems to be even larger than the first guy’s. He strokes it, slowly, relishing on the terror in the pilot’s eyes.</p><p>”A nation must submit to God, a man must submit to his nation, and a bitch must submit to a man. It is the natural order of things.”</p><p>”You’re… not a man, just… just a scared little son of a whore”, the pilot pants, terror making his voice shaky and breathless, but eyes turned towards the smirking bastard.</p><p>That sparks a fresh flash of hatred in the man, and he strikes his palm across the pilot’s cheek.</p><p>”Say that about my mother again and I’ll cut your godless tongue out,” he spits.</p><p>”But what more could I expect? You’re just a rabid animal, never been put to your place. Spare the rod…” A new strike makes the pilot’s ears ring, and the soldier’s palm lingers on his face for a while longer. The pilot snaps his head to the side, trying to catch the bastard’s skin between his teeth, but misses by an inch.</p><p>”Enough with the preaching, Jones! Get into it already, your sermons won’t turn him into a sacred virgin!” someone hollers, and the man’s cheeks turn red with anger.</p><p>”Think I don’t…. know that?”</p><p>He rubs the head of his rod against the pilot’s twitching hole, and the pilot whines audibly with pain and terror.</p><p>It’s too big, it’s never going to fit without stretching and tearing him further. He can already feel his insides burning up with the nauseating wetness.</p><p>”You’re… a godless degenerate anyway… an invert whore, abominably eager to be violated... Ain’t a prayer that’d fix that”, he mutters, pushing inside.</p><p>The entry feels like a punch in the gut, making the pilot gasp and contract around the invasion.</p><p>”No”, he whines under his breath, eyes screwing shut.</p><p>The only way to make the pain less searing seems to be fighting against his very instinct and relax his cramped muscles. The pilot tries to breathe, to forget what’s happening between his legs and concentrate on the air that flows through his hoarse, burning throat.</p><p>”Oh yes…. Submission is a virtue”, the Jones bastard whispers and buries himself deep inside the pilot’s sticky, feverish heat, hands grasping the damp front of the pilot’s uniform.</p><p>The pilot whimpers, feeling his soft, squishy insides giving way to the intrusion. The enemy’s cock is so deep inside him he can see the violent thrusts through his abdominal wall. He can’t even turn his gaze away from the terrible, hypnotic sight.</p><p>”Lo and behold, you’re right, sarge”, the asshole Jones moans, following the pilot’s gaze.</p><p>”A real freak of nature, an abomination. That’s not… That’s not how a man’s ought to work.” But whatever the bastard says, the pilot can tell the situation is just exciting him further, making him pound harder against his belly and stretching his aching insides.</p><p>”Why are you even doing this?” The pilot cries, an electric jolt of panic running through him again.</p><p>He feels like he’s about to burst, pressure building up inside him and making his muscles clench.</p><p>He can feel the terrible sploshing inside him, a vile feeling that’s making him filthier than all the blood, piss and bile on him ever could.</p><p>”Why? To teach you a lesson, of course. To… make an honest bitch out of you”, the Jones bastard grunts, putting his hand on the pilot’s bulging belly. He’s taking it slow, relishing the moment, feeling the outlines of his rod through the quivering tissue.</p><p>”You brought this onto yourself, you invert Jezebel! You should thank the Sarge and I, and ask for forgiveness.”</p><p>Tears are streaming down the pilot’s face. He doesn’t feel sorry, he doesn't even understand what he should apologize for. He was just sitting tied to a chair and these bastards came in and started hurting him, even though he’d done everything they asked of him before.</p><p>He can just barely breathe, the bastard Jones stabbing him again and again in a place deep inside him that feels like a raw nerve end.</p><p>Even though he doesn’t want to, he gasps out loud, unable to hide the discomfort any better. This seems to please his enemy, who starts to palm his sore belly again.</p><p>”What are you made of, anyway? No normal man fits on another man’s cock like that”, he pants.</p><p>The pilot doesn’t know what to say. He just knows that he feels very badly like passing out all of a sudden, more so than even in an accelerating plane.</p><p>His skin turns slippery with sweat and the feel of the enemy’s cock violating his insides fills him with a hot, anticipating dread.</p><p>”No, no no no”, the pilot gasps, thrashing against the horrible feeling, but it just gets worse.</p><p>He can see his own skin turning mottled, with red spots blossoming on his exposed stomach like faint bruises. It’s not awfully painful, he notices distantly. More like heat. But the intensity of the feeling takes his breath away, and his head swims.</p><p>”See?! That ain’t God’s working! They are going against the natural order, these fascists and atheists and sodomites!”</p><p>The bastard Jones has his hands on the pilot’s shivering body, pushing his jacket and shirt out of the way to expose more of the reddening skin and quivering form.</p><p>”It’s told… It’s told to us in the Word that we’ll see this, all this and more... before the end comes. You should repent if there’s any decency left in you”, the soldier spits, striking his palm against the pilot’s cheek when his head is about to lull to the side.</p><p>The pilot lifts his glassy gaze slowly, struggling to breathe.</p><p>”I’m… I’m sorry… you’re such an asshole”, he wheezes.</p><p>The Jones bastard stares at him, comprehension and anger rising on his face.</p><p>”Truly you are an abomination!” He rams his cock to that one spot that makes the pilot’s spine feel like it’s catching fire, and grabs the pilot’s hair.</p><p>”The Devil must have… made you like this… to taunt us.” The soldier strokes himself roughly through the pilot’s abdomen, feeling the heat of the man’s displaced, tender guts along his member.</p><p>The pilot’s vision goes dark all of a sudden.</p><p>This must be Death, he thinks. He doesn’t feel anything any more, he’s weightless and floating in space. He’s so thankful he could cry, he’s done it, he’s managed to die after all…</p><p>His senses come back screaming. He can feel Everything. His skin dissolves, his limbs are set aflame and his nerves are bursting like artillery fire. His insides clench so hard it hurts and he screams, a long wail that just keeps coming out against his will. And suddenly, it stops.</p><p>He looks at his body slowly, just to find it more or less in the same condition it already was, but the red splotches are fading and his heart feels like beating again, and the Jones bastard is laughing at him. A disgusted, bitter laugh, before the man hits him yet again, hard enough to make blood splash out of his nose.</p><p>”He’s… out of it… Beyond salvation… the fucking invert whore… likes it! How dare you do that? I’m a… Christian man! I have… I have a fiancee, for God’s sake! Lord have mercy...” the Jones bastard grunts, ramming into the pilot’s slack body again and again. He continues muttering something under his breath, a prayer maybe.</p><p>The pilot shudders, fighting against his urge to curse and spit at the pathetic bastard. If he does, this will take longer, though.</p><p>So he closes his eyes, deprives the Yankees from the pleasure of seeing him struggle, and breathes, imagining the night sky.</p><p>”Goddamn you Nazi sodomite!” the Jones bastard exclaims, burying his cock deep in the pilot’s gut.</p><p>The pilot lets out a broken little cry, feeling how the man spills inside him, filling him up further with the disgusting flood that burns in the cuts and tears like acid.</p><p>The Yankee gets up fast, tugging up his trousers and straightening his collar.</p><p>”Despicable”, he hisses, leaning against a wall and lighting a cigarette.</p><p>The pilot starts to cry. His belly hurts worse than before and his nose is bleeding profusely again.</p><p>”What do you even want?” he whimpers.</p><p>”You really don’t know?” the mean-looking Yankee asks, patting the pilot’s cheek.</p><p>
  <em>”We just want to see you break.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Hispanic-looking Yankee is eyeing the pilot’s bruised, pale body hungrily.</p><p>The pilot feels himself leaking sticky, bloody mess, and tries to press his face against his restricted arm not to look. The enemy chuckles and pushes his cheek away with the tip of his military boot.</p><p>”Hah, my first time with a white bitch! And I thought getting drafted was a misfortune! Hey guys, how should I do him!?”</p><p>The huge man holding the pilot’s leg groans:</p><p>”After me, Pérez, that’s how. I ain’t shagging him after you!”</p><p>”Hey, cut the fella some slack, dumbass! It doesn’t count with a Nazi faggot”, a young-looking soldier with an awkward moustache exclaims, and slaps the huge bastard’s bald head. He’s been quiet this far, but is getting closer now and observes the pilot curiously.</p><p>”And these guys are the bigoted assholes anyways. Stop being so fucking old-fashioned and let Pérez get to it!”</p><p>”Oh well”, the huge soldier groans.</p><p>”But don’t fucking finish inside, that’d be wrong.”</p><p>”Would it, though? Look at you... God, such a perfect whitey boy. Did your mama bathe you in milk or what?” the Pérez asshole kneels down by the pilot's side and wipes dirty hair away from his face, grinning.</p><p>”So fucking pretty, like a fucking girl. I’d pay for this shit, you know that? You must think you’re so much fucking better, don’t you? With your fucking skull measurements and skin charts, you must be the second in line from Queen fucking Victoria.” The man pinches the pilot’s cheek, hard.</p><p>The pilot winces, the dull throbbing of his stabbed palm radiating through his arm even worse when he moves.</p><p>”I’m not crawling on the floor, though. Nah, sweetheart… We’re gonna do it properly. Hey Sarge, care to help me out here? We could suspend him on that wall, yeah… Like that.”</p><p>The pilot’s legs are suddenly let go of, and he goes lax, collapsing on his side. The wet pain splashes inside his gut and he whines, curling up as much as he can.</p><p>Then, suddenly, someone yanks the knife out of his palm and he lets out a shriek as fresh pain flashes through it.</p><p>Before he has time to take the opportunity, his handcuffs are grabbed and pulled backwards.</p><p>The ache in his broken wrist makes his whole arm numb with pain.</p><p>He’s pulled against a wall, and the chain of the cuffs is hooked from a knife the mean-looking Yankee has lodged high onto the wall.</p><p>The pilot’s broken wrist is blazing with agony until he manages to find balance, the balls of his boots just barely grazing the floor. If he slips, his weight will fall right back on the cuffed arms.</p><p>”Look at that! You look even better like this, whitey”, the asshole Pérez purrs, running his hands along the pilot’s sides.</p><p>”Lean and soft like a fucking virgin… Sure you’re not a girl? You could very well be.” The soldier’s hand slithers between his legs and touches the pilot from where he’s sore and bleeding, and a finger slips inside him.</p><p>”Wow, so wet for me already? You should guard your virtue better than this, darling, not throwing yourself on me so eagerly. But if you insist...” The Pérez bastard leans very close to the pilot and kisses his neck, sinking another finger into his hole.</p><p>It hurts so bad the pilot cries out, struggling to stay upright as the soldier keeps violating his neck with wet, nibbling kisses.</p><p>”Greedy girl… I bet I can put a third finger in there”, the Yankee chuckles, ramming the third digit knuckle-deep in the pilot’s leaking insides.</p><p>The pilot trembles, pain sparking up in the base of his spine, but his muscles refuse to clench around the intrusion properly.</p><p>He begins to shiver, skin flushing cold and his abused guts burning hot.</p><p>This Yankee bastard keeps getting visibly more and more excited, stretching his tender insides until he whines.</p><p>”Look at you, getting so ready for my cock. Hmm… You should have really worn a skirt though, don’t you know how hard it is to fool around in slacks”, the soldier groans, seemingly regretful to take his fingers out of the pilot’s sickly wetness. The pilot tries to muffle his gasp when the man pulls a knife from his pocket, but fails, emitting a wet, little sob.</p><p>”Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart… I’m just making this easier for us”, the Pérez bastard almost giggles.</p><p>In a panicked moment, the pilot tries to kick him, slips, and falls hanging from his agonizingly hurting wrists, screaming.</p><p>He thrashes around, trying to get back to balance, soles slipping on the bloodied floor. He’s wailing, wrist burning like it might snap in two, when the Yankee asshole grabs him by the waist, in a mockery of an embrace.</p><p>"Shh, baby… No need to get dramatic. I know you can’t wait, but behave yourself”, the bastard chuckles.</p><p>He takes aim at the pilot’s lowered trousers, slashes a cut across their crotch, and puts the knife away.</p><p>The pilot blinks.</p><p>He’s not going to die yet.</p><p>
  <em>He’s not going to die yet.</em>
</p><p>The Pérez bastard grabs the waist of his ruined trousers and pulls them back up.</p><p>The pilot starts sobbing.</p><p> </p><p>”Come on, baby… don’t be shy, let me help you”, the Pérez bastard whispers, grabbing the pilot’s trembling thigh and lifting it.</p><p>The pilot wraps his leg around the man, terrified of slipping again.</p><p>His eyes are stinging and his cheeks are wet and he wants so hard to fight back, but everything he could do would just throw him off balance and make the bastard touch him more.</p><p>The Yankee’s hand travels onto his backside and squeezes and kneads.</p><p>The pilot shudders, the touch making him feel sick again, and when the fingers enter him through the cut in his uniform trousers, he whines out loud.</p><p>”We aren’t in a hurry. Let’s get you all ready for me, sweetheart.”</p><p>The pilot grits his teeth, fighting against the urge to scream, as the soldier keeps invading deeper into him and shoving a third and a fourth finger inside.</p><p>They go in easily, though.</p><p>So easily it makes his skin crawl, and he shivers helplessly around the invasion, as his thighs get wetter and wetter with blood and…</p><p>The Yankee’s fingers brush against something inside him that makes him gasp.</p><p>”Like that, baby? Let me make you feel real good”, the Pérez bastard murmurs and keeps rubbing that sore spot that makes the pilot taste copper and ozone.</p><p>”Please, no”, the pilot cries, breath hitching and pressure tightening in his belly.</p><p>”You want to have me inside your pink whitey cunt already?”, the soldier chuckles, opening his trousers with one hand, the other still sinking inside the pilot’s wet, loosening hole.</p><p>”Okay, baby… If you insist.” The Yankee fucker breathes in his ear, a slippery tongue running along his earlobe before sliding it inside his ear.</p><p>The pilot startles and almost falls, wrapping his legs around the man’s hips on instinct. The head of the Yankee’s cock slides inside him with an eerie ease, slipping right in without much resistance from his body and striking right at the spot that makes him gasp again.</p><p>”Oh wow… Your whitey cunt feels fucking amazing. Hey guys, do all whitey girls feel like this? He’s like fucking Jell-O!” The asshole Pérez exclaims and grabs the pilot’s slender hips, slamming himself in hard.</p><p>”Sweet Jesus, baby.. How can you be so perfect? Have you been waiting for a thick, Latino cock all this time?” The man murmurs and buries his face against the pilot’s neck again, nibbling him softly.</p><p>”I haven’t been waiting for any of this”, the pilot sniffles, wrapping his legs tighter around the Yankee’s hips.</p><p>
  <em>”I just want to die.”</em>
</p><p>”Nonsense, baby. Your body doesn’t lie”, the Pérez bastard whispers.</p><p>A cold shiver runs through the pilot’s body as another wave of intense, breathtaking dizziness washes over him.</p><p>”I don’t lie, I hate this”, he sobs, barely able to utter the words.</p><p>His head swims and his limbs feel incredibly heavy, and he has to lean on the bastard Pérez’s shoulder to stabilize himself.</p><p>”Then why is your cunt welcoming me so eagerly, sweetheart? You wouldn’t have gotten yourself in this if you didn’t want it”, the soldier assures him, thrusting against the knot in the pilot’s gut until he sees white flashes.</p><p>”Someone doesn’t just… accidentally look and dress and act like you”, the Yankee tells him, running his hands under the pilot’s damp jacket and pinching his nipples.</p><p>The pilot lets out a wet sob.</p><p>”If you end up on someone’s cock, and if you end up cumming from that… That’s because you wanted it, baby. Your kind is made for this.”</p><p>”I don’t even know what you mean”, the pilot cries, insides burning and spasming around the intrusion.</p><p>He’s seeing stars and sweat is streaming down his spine.</p><p>There is a painful pressure building up inside him, and he wonders if he’s about to wet himself again.</p><p>”Oh, but your body knows… That sweet, sweet pain inside you? It means this is just right, that you’re loving it. Your whitey cunt is embracing my cock so perfectly…” The Pérez bastard presses his palm against the pilot’s stomach. There is indeed a pulsating agony, so blinding and sore that it’s barely even pain anymore, and the pilot gasps and shudders.</p><p>”That’s it, baby girl… You’re loving this, loving to be bred by a real man”, the Yankee whispers in his ear.</p><p>”Your insides are squeezing me so well, baby… That’s because of how badly you want my Latino seed inside you.”</p><p>”I… Don’t”, the pilot sobs, tremors running through his body. He’s quite sure he’s about to wet himself soon, but tries to hold back and keep hanging on his violator’s hips.</p><p>His belly hurts badly, though, so badly he knows he can’t hold it much longer.</p><p>”Let me make you feel real good, sweetheart… I’m not in a hurry”, the Pérez bastard pants, holding onto the pilot’s shivering waist.</p><p>”Let me make you ready for it... I’ll put a little Castizo baby in your belly and you’re going to love it.”</p><p>Tears are flowing down the pilot’s face and onto the Yankee’s jacket.</p><p>”That’s not true”, the pilot whines, feeling his legs going weaker as he tries to hold on to the soldier’s waist.</p><p>He feels so sick he wants to vomit but can’t, and the squeeze in his gut is just making his violator look more excited.</p><p>”Oh but it is… This is how babies are made, sweetheart. Don’t they tell you anything in the Reich?” the Pérez asshole snickers.</p><p>”<em>No… Please, no... I don’t want to</em>”, the pilot sobs, too out of breath to scream. His belly hurts so badly already, he can’t even think about…</p><p>”You’ll look so good, your white belly stretched to a breaking point. Too bad they’re not going to want you back like that. They’ll never take you back with a brown baby in your belly, not even after that… They’ll think you’re ruined for good, with your stretched whitey belly and your pink little cunt that won’t close back up”, the soldier pants in his ear.</p><p>The pilot is wailing, a thin little sound vibrating throughout his body.</p><p>Shudders are running through him and he feels horribly badly like wetting himself, or perhaps cramping really hard, but instead the eerie kind of electricity starts buzzing again along his nerves, and his eyes widen.</p><p>”<em>Please, no</em>”, he gasps, voice little and scared, but it’s too late.</p><p>Something terrible is happening inside him again, and this time he knows he’s not dying.</p><p>He breaks apart, screaming, and the agony keeps on going when the Yankee stabs him again and again with his cock.</p><p>”Please”, the pilot sobs. His nerves don’t stop burning, his whole skin is sore and raw and his belly is spasming so badly he can’t breathe.</p><p>”Okay, baby girl… all right”, the Pérez bastard moans, putting his mouth on the pilot’s mouth.</p><p>In any other situation, the pilot would bite, but now he ends up just gasping for air when his vision goes black and his insides start filling up with the familiar, terrifying heat.</p><p>The pain rises up, like an accelerating plane. And then it’s gone. He doesn’t wet himself. The pressure is gone.</p><p>The Yankee takes his mouth off, sighing, and chuckles.</p><p>”You’re welcome, sweetheart. Even if the rest of these guys are fucking savages, now you’ll know how it’s done right. Wow...” The man steps back, getting his trousers back up and fumbling for a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.</p><p>”A smoke? Oh, sorry… Probably shouldn’t make my baby mama smoke”. He giggles. The pilot stares at him and towards the other soldiers in the room, sobbing and trying to catch his breath.</p><p>”That’s… It’s not true. You’re just… a bunch of lying bastards. It can’t be true.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ritter is woken up by a band of American soldiers, who inform him they have killed the Russian interrogator, before they proceed to inflict physical violence on him. He is physically abused and urinated on, and the Americans cut him from the bondage to forcefully hold him down. A mouthy sergeant steps on the pilot’s privates, causing him to wet himself, while humiliating him verbally. The sergeant then threatens Ritter with an edged weapon and forces him to perform oral sex until he vomits.<br/>The pilot is then raped by the sergeant, who keeps him in place by stabbing his palm to the floor with an edged weapon. The sergeant keeps verbally abusing him with homophobic and misgendering slurs through the rape and making degrading comments about his assumed loss of ”virginity”. During the rape, Ritter undergoes a level of anal trauma and begins to bleed. His rapist ejaculates inside, causing the pilot additional anxiety.<br/>The rape is then continued by a soldier by the name of Jones, who keeps making religious and homophobic remarks and blaming the rape on Ritter. The rape causes the pilot to involuntarily orgasm, which makes Jones inflict more physical violence on him before ejaculating. The pilot himself is not familiar with the concept of orgasm and the experience distresses him.<br/>A third soldier, Hispanic-looking man called Pérez, removes the edged weapon from Ritter’s palm and forces him into a standing position. The pilot is then raped first manually and then with a penis, while using misgendering and racially charged insults, as well as threatening the pilot with the possibility of pregnancy, which terrifies him. The pilot involuntarily orgasms again while being non-consensually kissed. He in unsure of the technical side of reproduction and is left extremely anxied about the pregnancy threat as the soldier ejaculates inside him.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Searing Starburst</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Searing Starburst</h1><p> </p><p>A soldier, older than the other Yankees, raises his brow and steps closer to the pilot. There’s a cigar in his mouth, a stubble on his chin and an unimpressed expression of a tired man.</p><p>He eyes the prisoner, measuring him. Blood and worse things are dripping down the pilot’s thighs and his legs are quivering, about to give out.</p><p>He’s crying, looking down on his violated body in horror. Trying to comprehend, what these enemies have done to him.</p><p>”There’s a table in the hallway. Jones, Bonehead?”</p><p>The asshole Jones, as well as the huge soldier, nod and leave abruptly. The older Yankee continues to smoke, unceremoniously opening his trousers.</p><p>”Please don’t put a baby in my belly”, the pilot whispers hoarsely, eyes wide and pleading.</p><p>”It doesn’t work like that… It’s… It’s not true”, he sobs.</p><p>The Yankee looks at him and grunts:</p><p>”Think I don’t know how it works? I have four sons. Four. I don’t miss.”</p><p>The two soldiers come back, dragging a wooden table that’s seen better days. They place it down and salute the man quickly.</p><p>The huge bastard then proceeds to pick the pilot up by the handcuffs. He screams, too paralyzed by pain and fear to fight it, and is slammed face down onto the table, legs hanging from the edge and brushing the floor. There is no power in him to kick, though, or to lift himself up.</p><p>His cheek is pressed against the cool, wooden surface, and it feels good. It feels so good, not having to support his aching body any more.</p><p>Tears roll down his cheek and on the table, and the Yankee steps behind him.</p><p>”Please don’t”, the pilot sobs.</p><p>The enemy doesn’t care. His legs are kicked apart and the man grabs him by the hip, impaling his cock inside the pilot’s squirming insides with one rough motion.</p><p>The pilot shudders, gasping, but his body no longer wants to fight back.</p><p>The Yankee bastard hammers on like a machine, one hand holding the pilot’s hip in place and the other holding the cigar.</p><p>He’s not making any noise, just breathing steadily and watching himself sinking into the pilot’s bleeding, loosening hole again and again.</p><p>The pilot lies still, trying to breathe through the thrusts piercing his body. His belly is hurting so badly, the enemy stabbing him against the table and his insides sploshing against the motion. The whole table thrashes. He closes his eyes and breathes in shuddering sobs.</p><p>”We’re giving you a bastard, you know”, the mean-looking Yankee notes, sitting next to the crying pilot and ruffling his bloody hair.</p><p>”This man right here… He’s a real red-blooded American. Would be a honor for you, really.”</p><p>The older Yankee holds the pilot in a vice grip, drilling himself in ruthlessly, and the mean-looking one pats the pilot’s wet cheek and tells him:</p><p>”We aren’t letting you die, oh no. We’ll make sure you live and carry your litter of bastards to term.”</p><p>”Please… take it out”, the pilot cries. He gathers his strength and lifts his gaze to the mean-looking Yankee, hands stretched helplessly in front of him like the mockery of a prayer.</p><p>”Just… take it out. Stab me in the gut. Anything but this”, he whispers.</p><p>But the bastard in front of him just laughs, and the other keeps drilling into his insides like an uncaring machine of war.</p><p>The soldier seems to have inhumane stamina, he just keeps going, drawing little, breathless whines and sobs from the pilot’s throat, and smokes his cigar, humming distantly.</p><p>A wave of nausea flushes over the pilot and he gags as the cock keeps shoving his soft insides around. It’s too much, he wants to cut and tear his skin open just to get the filth out. He can’t take it any more. He starts screaming again, and the hammering against his tender entrails makes his voice shatter and break.</p><p><em>”Oh no… We’ll take away all sharp little objects you could use. Put you in a box so shallow you can’t throw yourself belly first on the floor. Tie up your hands so you can’t damage US property”</em>, the mean-looking Yankee tells him.</p><p>
  <em>”We’ll brand the insignia of the US Army on your growing belly and spread your legs like the wings of a goddamn eagle so you can keep popping out bastards for us.”</em>
</p><p>The soldier between the pilot’s legs keeps going like a jackhammer, going in so hard the pilot is almost going numb. Or maybe that’s his body giving up.</p><p>He has to kick his leg around a little bit just to see if he still can, making a fresh wave of agony sweep through his pelvis. He lets out a suffocated yelp. The Yankee lets out a pleased grunt and gives the pilot’s ass a stinging slap with his palm.</p><p>The pilot startles and whines. Did he do something wrong? Why are they still hitting him? He’s too tired and hurt to lift himself up.</p><p>”I just want to die”, he sobs, and the Yankee smacks him again, hard, making his skin sting with hot pain and his insides contract around the soldier’s cock.</p><p>”Then stop whining. No crying in war or baseball”, the Yankee grunts and grabs the pilot’s hair.</p><p>The pilot starts crying harder, wishing he could so much as bash his head against the table, but the man’s holding him tight.</p><p>”Feels real good, doesn’t it?” The mean-looking Yankee says, palm ghosting over the pilot’s neck.</p><p>”No”, the pilot sobs, fighting against the urge to be sick again. He knows that he could drown, he barely has the strength to keep breathing and his face and throat are pressed against the table so hard that he feels splinters of dry paint digging into his cheek.</p><p>”Hmm, don’t be shy, you can admit it now. None of your rabid Nazi dogs are here”, the Yankee chuckles.</p><p>
  <em>”And if they were… They’d want to take their turns too. Think that white ass of yours goes unnoticed in the barracks? I’d bet my grandpa's watch that they have. They’re just waiting for a day when your superiors are elsewhere and they can overpower you when you’re all alone.”</em>
</p><p>”Careful there, Sarge!” The young soldier exclaims, grinning.</p><p>”I’d bet my grandpa’s watch that his superiors are just waiting for the chance too!”</p><p>”Your grandpa's got no watch, O’Reilly! He’s fucking Irish!” The asshole Pérez bellows and starts laughing.</p><p>”Well you’ve got no grandpa, smart-ass!” The young soldier, O’Reilly, snickers.</p><p>The pilot is crying, tears and blood from his nose pooling on the table. The puddle under his cheek is cold and slick, while the slickness between his legs keeps running down his thighs and the Yankee’s tool drills into him.</p><p><em>”They wouldn’t be this nice with you, you know”</em>, the mean-looking Yankee growls, leaning closer over the pilot.</p><p>
  <em>”They’ll knock your teeth out so you’ll be nice and soft for sucking cocks all day long. Chain you to the toilets so they can piss in you and make you lick them clean afterwards.”</em>
</p><p>The pilot’s insides hurt so much he can’t respond. He whines quietly against the table and tries to move his legs that feel so numb, hanging from the edge of the table. The command barely registers, his feet tingling more than actually moving anywhere.</p><p><em>”They’ll grow tired of your loose hole over time, you know… And when they do, they’ll pull your sloppy hole inside out and use it like a fucking sleeve to warm their Nazi cocks”</em>, the mean-looking Yankee whispers.</p><p>The pilot whimpers, shaking his head weakly.</p><p>
  <em>”Oh, but they will… They’ll cut off your arms and legs, too, if your thrashing begins to annoy them too much. Use you as their fuckhole until there’s nothing left of you to fuck. You should be so fucking grateful you’re here and not there, and stop resisting.”</em>
</p><p>The Yankee pats the pilot’s shivering shoulder, before taking his cigarette and rubbing its smoldering head against the pilot’s exposed neck without a warning. The pilot startles, the burning pain sparking along his nerves and nudging his mind back into his unresponsive body.</p><p>”Bastard”, he hisses, a wet sob rattling in his chest.</p><p>”I’m not resisting. I couldn’t, you’re holding me down!” He breathes in, a pained gasp that’s cut short by the Yankee’s palm striking across his ear and making him deaf and blind for a moment.</p><p>The pain in his belly is so bad, his whole body flashes in agony every time the enemy’s tool grazes along his nerves, and he can’t stop shivering.</p><p>The trembling takes over and his muscles start to spasm so hard his lungs can no longer take in air and a splash of bile rises to his mouth and on the table.</p><p>”Stop that”, the mean-looking Yankee commands and grabs him by the neck.</p><p>”Clean it up and cut the bullshit!”</p><p>The pilot’s vision is so blurry he can’t even see the mess, but his cheek is rubbing against the wet, sticky, growing puddle.</p><p>The silent soldier keeps tearing into him, thrashing his body against the table with every thrust, and the mean-looking Yankee smacks his ear again.</p><p>”Clean it up!”</p><p>Shuddering, the pilot opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out.</p><p>The mixture of bile and blood is sour on his tongue, feeling burning and dry despite its apparent wetness.</p><p>The mean-looking bastard ruffles his hair again, laughing.</p><p>”That’s it, put your little faggot mouth to good use. Clean it all up too, you’re filthy!”</p><p>It’s so hard to swallow but the pilot does his best, licking off the mess they’ve made him make. The shock waves struck by the quiet soldier behind him are making him so overwhelmed and numb he wonders if he could actually pass out and have the sweet release of darkness for even a little while.</p><p>His own body feels so distant, like he’s almost beyond the pain and just observing. Looking at the alarms of the dashboard flicker until they fade away, letting him know a system has gone offline.</p><p>He tries to clench his muscles but can’t. His body lies still, open for the enemy to use and unresponsive to his own signals.</p><p>Has his system gone offline?</p><p>The pilot lets out a panicked little sob, his gaze darting across the room, searching for anything.</p><p>
  <em>Anything.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>”You aren’t even trying to giddy up, are you?” the cigar-chewing Yankee grunts and smacks the pilot’s ass again.</p><p>”Your father would be ashamed of raising a quitter. Come on...” The Yankee pulls out, suddenly, and grabs the pilot’s hair and pulls him from the table.</p><p>The pilot’s body can’t compensate the fall. He slides down like a wet rag and hits his cheek painfully against the edge of the table.</p><p>His legs can’t support him any longer. He’s being held up by his hair, and the Yankee pulls so hard he has to try and crawl around.</p><p>”Don’t be a sissy, finish what you started”, the soldier commands. The pilot blinks slowly, trying to comprehend what they want now.</p><p>”Suck me off, fucking retard!” The Yankee shoves his bloody, vile cock between the panting pilot’s lips and grabs his hair with both hands.</p><p>The taste and smell of violence are overpowering, the pilot’s eyes water and his throat tightens, but he can’t fight against the vice grip.</p><p>The Yankee starts thrusting into his throat like a cruel, efficient machine, leaving no way for air to go in or out.</p><p>The pilot begins trembling. His chest burns and his head starts to go light.</p><p>The Yankee above him grunts approvingly.</p><p>”Much better.”</p><p>The pressure in the pilot’s chest builds and builds up. His body is about to burst. His mind starts to drift away and his throat relaxes, letting the invasion continue uninterrupted. He doesn’t even want to fight it any more. Maybe, if he stays very slack, he’ll pass out and drown.</p><p>The enemy pushes on, forcing himself further and further.</p><p>The pilot’s vision begins to darken, the void creeping closer from the edges.</p><p>He will not fight it, he wants to submit to the nothing, embrace it and drift away.</p><p>”I don’t think so.” The Yankee pulls out from his mouth, shaking his head.</p><p>”No quitting.” He frees one of his hands from the pilot’s hair and takes the smoldering cigar out of his mouth.</p><p>”Open up.”</p><p>The pilot has to. He’s desperately gasping for air, tears streaming down his bruised cheeks and lungs wheezing.</p><p>The Yankee puts his thumb into the corner of his mouth, pries it open and presses the cigar down against the pilot’s tongue.</p><p>The pilot screams and thrashes. The burning circle is branded into his nerves, he can’t see or feel anything else and he smells and tastes his own burned flesh.</p><p>The Yankee rubs the cigar down for a while, before tossing it on the ground.</p><p>”That’s better”, he grunts, stroking his cock harshly in his hand and against the pilot’s wet cheek.</p><p>The pilot gasps and coughs, sobbing. There’s ash in his throat and the burned patch on his tongue bleeds and stings like it is still burning.</p><p>”Look at me”, the Yankee tells him and yanks his face up.</p><p>”Don’t be a fucking sissy, look me in the eye when I talk to you!”</p><p>The pilot lifts his gaze slowly, vision blurred by the tears and the pain.</p><p>The Yankee grunts in approval. Before the pilot has time to close his eyes, the man spills all over his face, in his eyes and his hair. When he inhales in shock, the burning stickiness goes into his nose and mouth too, and he starts to cough violently, eyes burning like splashed with acid.</p><p>”Look at that”, the mean-looking Yankee purrs, grabbing the pilot by the jacket and lifting him back up in the table.</p><p>”You just got a nice little cinnamon roll icing from a real American hero. Ain’t that fucking sweet.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>”I think you’re trying to slack off, Pissfaggot”, the mean-looking Yankee growls.</p><p>The accusation is so alien it sounds almost amusing. The pilot lets out a wet, sobbing chuckle he hopes sounds like a cry.</p><p>He can’t control his body any longer. He feels everything, though. The blood trickling from his cut arm and his stabbed palm, the burning ember of pain in his gut and the cold wetness that’s covering his face.</p><p>He can’t respond.</p><p>”I think you’re just trying to spoil the fun for us and disrespect us. Is that it?” The Yankee holds the pilot up by his jacket and looks him in the eye.</p><p>”You think you can just disrespect him like that? You should have had him all the way, too, and said thanks. This...” The man swipes some of the stickiness from the pilot’s bruised face and eyes it carefully.</p><p>”This is not how you treat a hero.”</p><p>He drops the pilot, who falls onto his back on the table, too tired to shield his head from the impact. It doesn’t hurt too much anymore. Just a new, dull ache drawing blurry outlines for his body.</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee pushes his legs apart and puts his sticky, gloved fingers between the pilot’s thighs. His fingers trace the pilot’s swollen, leaking hole.</p><p>”Well ain’t that nice?! Squeeze a little for me, would you, Pissfaggot?”</p><p>The pilot whines, feeling the fingers slide inside without any resistance. He can’t. His muscles don’t respond.</p><p>”No? Hmm, I think you’re still slacking off. Let’s see...” The Yankee stretches the pilot’s hole wider with his fingers.</p><p>Bloody mess trickles out onto the table and the pilot lets out a shaky breath.</p><p>”Stop that! Keep everything in and stop being an ungrateful bitch”, the Yankee commands and scoops some of the blood to rub it back in the pilot’s gaping hole.</p><p>”We have helped you get rid of your awkward little secret, Pissfaggot. Deflowered you all nicely and shown you what it’s like with a real man, so that you don’t die as a pathetic, clueless, bed-wetting virgin. Aren’t you thankful?”</p><p>The pilot whimpers when the Yankee’s fingers stretch him open and invade him one by one. The fourth one makes him gasp, but the Yankee doesn’t care, ramming his fingers deeper and stretching the pilot further.</p><p>”Feels real good, doesn’t it? You know what I think though? I think I believe you. I think you may not be slacking off. Maybe he fucked you up for good.”</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee’s free hand travels onto the pilot’s belly and pushes his jacket out of the way. He pinches the pale, moist skin and watches it turn pink.</p><p>”Oh, you’re so ruined… You’ll never be satisfied without a real red-blooded American again. You’ll be a slut for a real man’s cock the rest of yor life. You’re… wow.”</p><p>The Yankee’s fingers sink into the pilot’s body past knuckles without resistance.</p><p>”Look at you! Oh, he really showed you a good time, didn’t he?! Oh Ritter, you’ll be left with such a badge of honor”, the man chuckles and shoves his thumb inside too, a trail of blood trickling down his wrist.</p><p>”You’re fucking made for this, aren’t you?! Just asking for more. Oh Ritter… You’ll find yourself craving for more, asking for anyone and everyone to fill you up for a moment to fill that gaping hole inside you you can’t close back up.”</p><p>”Like… the one in your personality?” the pilot whispers hoarsely and looks at the Yankee in the eye.</p><p>The bastard’s expression goes dark and he stabs his fingers against a spot that makes the pilot’s vision black out for a moment.</p><p>A jolt of sickly pain runs through him and the pilot lets out a muffled moan.</p><p>”You love that, don’t you? Hmm, don’t deny yourself. You’re just a little faggot who loves this, you always have, even if you haven’t admitted it to yourself”, the Yankee purrs as he keeps rubbing that spot.</p><p>The pilot can’t control even his breathing now. His breath comes and goes in pained, little gasps, and he wails out. His chest is fluttering oddly and his spine buzzes with electric pain.</p><p>”See? Your body doesn’t lie. This is what you want. To be used by real men, to be bred like the bitch you are”, the mean-looking Yankee tells him, pressing into the source of the pain with increasing force.</p><p>”Please”, the pilot whines breathlessly, muscles contracting involuntarily in his sides.</p><p>”Oh of course, no need to ask”, the Yankee whispers.</p><p>”Let’s see if you’re all taken care of here… Ready to have your belly full of American babies, Ritter?” The fingers inside the pilot rub him mercilessly, drawing blood and muffled moans from him, and the mean-looking bastard grins and leans over the pilot.</p><p>”Aren’t you all nice and opened up here… So soft and ready. Think I could shove my hand all the way to your dirty little uterus and feel around?”</p><p>”That’s… not true”, the pilot sobs, shuddering. His skin is starting to turn mottled with red again, and his head spins.</p><p>The enemy’s hand is digging into his aching insides and making him feel the awful thing that shoots through his nerves and makes them burn and tingle.</p><p>”Oh, it is true, though… Feel this, Ritter? Your fucked-up little faggot body is made for this so perfectly. That’s the passage to your filthy little faggot uterus… Think I can get in there?” The Yankee’s hand creeps deeper and the pilot cries out, an alarmed little yelp.</p><p>He can feel that for sure. There’s a painful, tight resistance still inside him and the mean-looking bastard is thrusting against it cruelly and draining out his remaining strength.</p><p>”Please don’t… Please...” he whimpers, eyes wide with terror.</p><p>”Shh, don’t be shy… We know already how badly you need it. Just relax and let me in, you know you want to”, the mean-looking Yankee whispers, so close the pilot can feel his breath on his face.</p><p>”Such a perfect little whore… Come on now, don’t make me force myself in.”</p><p>The pilot shudders, trying to catch his breath between panicked little sobs.</p><p>”Please… It hurts so much.”</p><p>”Don’t fight it then. This is what you’re made for. Just embrace it”, the Yankee whispers in a soft tone that would perhaps, in another moment, sound gentle. Now it just makes a cold shiver creep up the pilot’s neck and makes him go silent with fear.</p><p>He doesn’t want to breathe, he doesn’t want to make any sound at all, just to fade away and melt into nothingness.</p><p>The Yankee doesn’t give that to him, of course, and jabs his fingers against something so hard it makes the pilot moan instead.</p><p>”That’s it… It’s okay, you can love it, no need to be quiet”, the Yankee murmurs and keeps assaulting the spot with sharp jabs until the pilot can’t keep himself silent any longer and starts whining and crying.</p><p>Shivers take over his body and his exposed belly starts blooming with patches of sickly red.</p><p>”Stop! Stop... stop... don’t make me...” The pilot cries and gasps, his vision going starry with the eerie pain.</p><p>It’s the best and worst kind of pain he’s ever felt, like he's about to die but without the sweet release of Death.</p><p>”I’m not making you do anything, Ritter. You’re doing this to yourself”, the mean-looking Yankee assures, feeling the pilot’s belly with his palm as his other hand slithers further.</p><p>”No, no, no, no...” The pilot sobs. His body is giving way to the intrusion, loosening up and letting the enemy deeper inside.</p><p>”Please stop now I feel like dying please don’t put your hand in my uterus!”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are wide with sincere, utter horror and all color has been drained from his face. Even his quivering lips are pale besides the bloody stains.</p><p>”Look at you, finally cheering back up! We were waiting for that! Such a good little whore, when you put your heart to it”, the Yankee praises, feeling the outlines of his hand through the pilot’s abused belly.</p><p>He stretches his fingers out until he can see their tips against the inside of the pilot’s clammy, red skin.</p><p>Something in the pilot snaps.</p><p>
  <em>”You Yankee bastard, I hope wild dogs mangle you and eat your cock!”</em>
</p><p>He’s suddenly weightless, fire and fury without a shape or form or pain.</p><p>He screams and kicks at the Yankee.</p><p>He throws his burning body over the table, smashes the back of his head against it as hard as he can, kicks the table leg so hard it breaks.</p><p>He’s falling now, harshly and surprisingly, and so is the Yankee bastard.</p><p>The wood under him breaks, sharp edges digging into his back, and the mean-looking asshole lands on him elbow first, knocking air out of his lungs.</p><p>”You little shit”, the Yankee groans, wriggling his hand out of the pilot’s bleeding hole and shuffling up hastily.</p><p>”I tried to be so nice to you, and this is how you thank me?! Well, time to show you some American hospitality.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sinking Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Sinking Stars</h1><p> </p><p>”Can I, Sarge?” The young soldier with the awkward mustache asks, looking at the pilot who’s gasping for air on the floor.</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee looks at the soldier, raising his brow, before flashing a surprised grin.</p><p>”My pleasure. Go on ahead! What do you have in store for us, O’Reilly?”</p><p>”Some interesting new innovations. You Nazi fuckers are all about new innovations, aren’t you”, the young soldier snickers and steps closer to the pilot.</p><p>The pilot shoots a dirty glimpse at him, taking a raspy breath.</p><p>”<em>You. Nazi. Fuckers. Are. All. About. New. Innovations. Aren’t. You?</em> It was a question, you dumb fuck. Answer it”, the soldier tells him and plants his boot on the pilot’s chest.</p><p>The pilot groans, still too out of breath to speak, and tries to pull the man out of balance with his chained hands instead.</p><p>His movements are slow and clumsy, though, and he’s still trying to grasp the man’s trouser leg when the man stomps a boot on his stomach.</p><p>The pilot collapses again on his back, gagging.</p><p>He’d be sick if there was something left. His eyes water and he starts coughing, unable to get much air into his lungs.</p><p>The soldier grinds his boot down, grinning.</p><p>”What was that? Come on, you Nazi wanker… Are. You. All. About. New. Innovations?”</p><p>A tear runs down the pilot’s cheek. He shakes his head, gasping quietly. It hurts so much, he can’t get air back to his lungs and the boot digs into his aching flesh mercilessly.</p><p>”No”, he tries to say, but no sound comes out.</p><p>”Happy to hear that! Let’s see then…” The young bastard finally lifts his boot off the pilot, leaving behind a red and blue print.</p><p>The pilot sees his flesh bruising further in real time, the edges of the print still bleeding outward under his pale skin.</p><p>His chest feels so tight he wants to claw it out to let air in. His eyes are blurry with tears and he whines, drawing air in slowly.</p><p>”Oh come on… Stop overreacting. What are you, five? Well, at least you’ve taken care of the preparations for us.” The young Yankee asshole crouches next to the pilot and swipes his hand across the shattered table, nodding approvingly.</p><p>”You think these guys have hurt you? That<em> this </em>has been scary? I’m going to introduce you to a new and very exciting kind of fear. Hey Sarge, would you give me a hand here? Let me get this board, and then we can put him… Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean.”</p><p><br/><br/>The pilot registers the Yankee bastard pulling a piece of the broken table from under him.</p><p>He’s slowly recovering his ability to breathe and tries to concentrate on that for now and forget whatever bullshit these Yankees are up to. They can swallow the board and choke on it for all he cares.</p><p>After a moment of peace, the mean-looking Yankee grabs the pilot by the shoulders of his uniform, and he’s dragged onto the board.</p><p>When the young bastard tries to strap his legs down with a belt, the pilot kicks him in the jaw with his knee.</p><p>The slap he receives in return seems insignificant compared to the darkening bruise on the Yankee’s chin, and the pilot can just barely cover his delight.</p><p>”You Nazi bastards just never stop, huh? Think you’re so fucking much better than everyone else, with your fucking flying trash can and your fucking clown costume. You think we’re scared of you?” The Yankee grabs the pilot’s leg and forces it down to strap it to the board.</p><p>The pilot stops thrashing to stare the young bastard in the eye.</p><p><em>”Why would you think I give a single flying fuck?”</em> He spits.</p><p>The young soldier blinks, grunts in irritation, and tightens the belt with a rough tug. Then he grabs the pilot’s shirt and pulls it up, the man’s jacket yanked along with it. The Iron Cross digs into the skin of his neck, dangling from its red and white ribbon.</p><p>The damp fabric covers the pilot’s face and the uncomfortable hold forces his chained hands above his head.</p><p>”Thank you! I would have died of nausea... if I had to look at your fucking mustache for a second longer”, the pilot hisses through the fabric.</p><p>He can’t see the bastard wincing but he can feel it. <em>And it feels good.</em></p><p>These assholes can beat and humiliate him all they want but they can’t make him stop despising them.</p><p>”Told you, O’Reilly!” The Pérez bastard howls with laughter.</p><p>”Even the fucking Nazi bitch sees how terrible your titty-sucking peach fuzz is! Shave your face for God’s sake, boy!”</p><p>A harsh kick meets the pilot’s side.</p><p>His rib lets out an audible crack and his body thrashes violently, but the only sound emitting from him is a muffled cackle.</p><p>His side is hurting but the Yankee’s pride is hurting worse.</p><p>”A little smart-ass, aren’t you? Think you are funny? You know what… I think you’ll be, you’ll be quite funny indeed”, the Yankee guffaws bitterly.</p><p>The pilot hears him opening his fly, and takes a quick breath.</p><p>When the stream hits the pilot’s face through the fabric, he realizes this is worse than the regular being pissed on.</p><p>
  <em>Much worse.</em>
</p><p>He startles and tries to wiggle away, but someone, perhaps the mean-looking Yankee, steps on his handcuffs and forces him to stay in place.</p><p>He tries to gasp for air, and that makes it even worse.</p><p>The pilot starts to gag, the piss-soaked shirt falling against his face as if underwater. The foul liquid drips into his broken nose and into his mouth when he tries to catch his breath.</p><p>Panic starts to take over the pilot’s mind. He’d yell if he could. It feels like drowning and like he’s about to be sick and acute pneumonia, all at once.</p><p>Tears begin to stream down his cheeks and he starts to shiver, struggling against the urge to vomit. If he does, he might choke.</p><p>”Interesting, isn’t it? Such a little thing, and yet...” The young Yankee chuckles and finishes pissing with a satisfied grunt.</p><p>The pilot tries to gasp for air through the damp shirt, wheezing.</p><p>”Not so tough now, are you? Would you like to get that off now?” The Yankee bastard asks softly.</p><p>The pilot gurgles, trying to turn his head to the side to breathe.</p><p>”No? That’s okay, I’m sure someone can help us out some more here. Pérez? I know you can, you need to take a leak every five minutes anyways!”</p><p>The pilot tries to protest, choked and muffled by the fabric, but he hears the asshole Pérez step closer nevertheless.</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut and goes slack to stop himself from being sick. He hears the bastard’s fly open and winces.</p><p>”God, you Nazi bastards are disgusting… This is way too nice of a treatment for you, really.<em> Do you have any idea what you’re putting innocent people through out there?!</em>” The young Yankee hisses, as Pérez starts pissing on the pilot’s covered face.</p><p>The pilot’s panicked whines and thrashing seem to just encourage the mustache bastard further, as he aims a sharp kick to the pilot’s side.</p><p>The pilot inhales in surprise and shock, and some of the burning piss seeps through the fabric and into his throat and he starts to cough.</p><p>His lungs rattle wetly but he hopes that’s from the piss and not the cracked ribs that now hurt like shards of glass under his skin.</p><p>The sensation of drowning is overwhelming. Stars dance across his closed eyes and the deafening roar of his own heartbeat muffles his hearing.</p><p>Someone, probably the fucking mustache Yankee, puts a boot on his bare chest and presses down. Instinctively, the pilot gasps again, and inhales even more piss.</p><p>He’s gagging and gurgling, praying in his mind he could drown for good and go back to nothingness.</p><p>Instead, the flow of piss ends eventually, and the young bastard steps off his chest and his chained hands are released from against the floor.</p><p>The pilot rolls on his undamaged side as much as he can, and starts coughing desperately to get the piss out and air back into his lungs.</p><p>”Aww... Look at that… Baby’s first waterboarding?” The young Yankee crouches next to the pilot and smacks him between the shoulder blades a couple of times.</p><p>It feels horrible, but some of the suffocating fluid splashes out and the pilot takes a shuddering breath.</p><p>”I didn’t even hurt you, you wuss. Think that was bad?! Maybe you should find out what your own guys are doing out there and think again!”</p><p>The soldier smacks him in the back a couple more times, before pulling his shirt and jacket down from his face.</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are red and teary and he’s panting, cheeks flushed pink from the asphyxia.</p><p>”You know what they do to people, right? How can you serve them, can’t you see they are fucking evil?!” The Yankee reaches for the decorated ribbon holding the Knight's Cross that the pilot is wearing under his collar.</p><p>”I just fly”, the pilot wheezes, bloodshot eyes darting from the soldier’s face to the cross around his neck.</p><p>
  <em>”I don’t know anything, I just fly.”</em>
</p><p>”You’re a filthy little liar, that’s what you are. I’d rather off myself than take part in what you feral dogs are doing. Hating people just for who they are: the Jews and the Gypsies and the Negroes and the queer and the handicapped. Can’t you see you’re with the bad guys?”</p><p>The young soldier yanks the Knight's Cross so hard the red fabric band holding it snaps. He takes the pendant and inspects it in his hand, brow furrowed.</p><p>”I don’t know what any of that even means”, the pilot sobs, a wet hiccup muffling his words.</p><p>”Well how about you stop being an imbecile and find out, Nazi faggot! No one’s forcing you to stay retarded!” The Yankee’s palm collides with the pilot’s cheek.</p><p>”Don’t you just fucking love dwelling in your fucking excellence...”</p><p>The Yankee’s fingers ghost over the swastika that’s engraved on the back of the pendant.</p><p>He’s touching it as if it was something poisonous and sharp, wincing with disgust.</p><p>Shaking his head, the Yankee shoves the Iron Cross so close to the pilot’s face it’s almost touching his lips.</p><p>”Come on, don’t be shy! Give your precious Nazi trinket a kiss!”</p><p>The pilot blinks, tears still blurring his vision.</p><p>”What?” He whispers.</p><p>”I just told you! Fucking kiss it if you love it so much!” The Yankee almost yells, and the pilot curls up to shield his bruised face from a new hit.</p><p>”For fuck’s sake, kiss it!” The Yankee grabs the pilot’s hair and forces his face towards the cross pendant.</p><p>”I don’t want to”, the pilot hisses between half-closed lips.</p><p>”You don’t want to?! Think this is about your fucking wants, you Nazi dog?! Kiss your fucking faggot swastika or I’ll make you swallow it!”</p><p>The Yankee rubs the cool metal against the pilot’s bloody lips and spits on him square in the eye.</p><p>”No”, the pilot growls, gritting his teeth.</p><p><em>”You</em> kiss it, if it’s making you that passionate about it.”</p><p>”This little bitch… This little Nazi bitch thinks he can ridicule America! What do you guys think? Can he?!” The asshole with the mustache glances at the other soldiers, who chuckle maliciously.</p><p>”He should have thought carefully before he fucked with us”, the mean-looking Yankee agrees, and crouches down next to the young soldier.</p><p>”As you wish then, Ritter. Open up.”</p><p>”Let’s liberate him from this shit”, the mustache asshole snickers when the mean-looking one levers the pilot’s mouth open with his knife.</p><p>The pilot can’t do much, besides letting out an alarmed wail before the pointy pendant and the Yankee’s gloved fingers are shoved deep into his mouth.</p><p>He tries to struggle but the knife presses against his palate and the mean-looking bastard grabs his chin harshly.</p><p>”Come on, swallow it, if you love it so fucking much”, the young soldier commands, forcing the pendant deeper into the pilot’s mouth.</p><p>It’s sharp, it’s too big and full of horrible angles, and the pilot struggles against suffocation, but the Yankee keeps stuffing the object further into his throat until the pilot lets out a pained gurgle.</p><p>Darkness starts creeping from the edges again.</p><p>”Very creative, O´Reilly… But he’s about to choke for real. Let me?” The mean-looking Yankee hovers over the pilot.</p><p>There is a pleading look in the pilot’s eyes.</p><p>Please let me choke, he thinks.</p><p>The Yankee bastard grins and shakes his head, and shoves the scabbard of his knife into the pilot’s throat.</p><p>The Iron Cross starts going down, but the pilot feels how it tears his throat in its descent.</p><p>Bloody bubbles spill from his mouth and he whines, trying not to fight the intrusion.</p><p>”Doesn’t freedom feel good”, the mean-looking Yankee whispers as he forces the pendant deeper.</p><p>The pilot gurgles, unable to answer.</p><p>The object in his throat seems to get stuck in an impossible position for a moment, before suddenly going down.</p><p>Tears stream down his face when the Yankee pulls the scabbard out and the pilot can breathe again.</p><p>”Doesn’t that feel better, Ritter?”</p><p><em>”Fuck you and fuck your freedom”</em>, the pilot growls, bloody foam dripping from his mouth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The mustache Yankee unbuckles the belt around the pilot’s legs and starts threading it back to his trousers.</p><p>The silent soldier has lit a new cigar and glances at the young man scoldingly from behind the cloud of smoke.</p><p>
  <em>”...and?”</em>
</p><p>”… and, what?”</p><p>The pilot trembles, trying to curl up as small as he can on the floor. His throat hurts and blood is seeping into his mouth and dripping out from the corner of his lips.</p><p>He just wants to rest, to close his eyes for a little moment and put his cheek against the cold floor. Sleep, maybe, or stop breathing and die.</p><p>”You primed the job nicely, now finish it”, the bastard with the cigar grunts. The pilot notices the young soldier wincing.</p><p>”No, I think I’m good here. He’s got what was coming for him. Now...”</p><p><em>”Now you finish the job, O’Reilly.”</em> The older Yankee’s tone is low and serious.</p><p>The mean-looking soldier slaps the young Yankee on the shoulder, a little too hard to be encouraging.</p><p>”O’Reilly, you Irish little bitch. Couldn’t they have sent one of your brothers instead?”</p><p>”Man up”, the man with the cigar growls.</p><p>The young Yankee stops buckling his belt and looks around the room and at the pilot who’s spitting blood on the floor.</p><p>The huge soldier, who has said very little throughout the assault, steps forward and kneels down next to the pilot.</p><p>”You keep being a ninny all you want, O’Reilly. I’m done waiting, I want to get to it before he fucking goes cold. Dunno about you but I like them living.”</p><p>He flashes a judgemental glare at the young man and grabs the pilot by the front of his soaked jacket.</p><p>”And you… You cheer the fuck up. I have use for you.”</p><p>The pilot grimaces. He doesn’t want to cheer up, he wants to lie back down and close his eyes. The pain in his stomped gut and his stabbed palm is starting to catch up, throbbing dully.</p><p>His breath still wheezes, and the cuts inside his throat sting horribly.</p><p>The huge Yankee slaps his cheek and groans:</p><p>”Come on, don’t sulk, give me a little smile.”</p><p>”A… <em>smile?”</em> The pilot whispers hoarsely, blinking. Blood is dripping down his chin.</p><p>
  <em>”Did these assholes pick you up from a fucking zoo?”</em>
</p><p>The huge soldier rolls his eyes, but a couple of the other Yankees are howling with laughter.</p><p>”We did, he was the main exhibit! Everyone come look at Bonehead the bald gorilla”, the asshole Pérez snickers, and the pilot can’t help but feel satisfied at the huge Yankee’s furious expression.</p><p>The bastard sits down on the floor, glaring at Pérez and the pilot.</p><p>”Forget it, you can keep your mouth shut. But bring that juicy German ass over here.”</p><p>He picks the pilot up effortlessly and pulls him onto his lap like a rag doll.</p><p>The pilot struggles to keep his head up so he doesn't have to lean onto the fucking Yankee for support.</p><p>The bastard maneuvers him around like he pleases, making the pilot sit on his lap, slumped to a half-kneeling position.</p><p>The pilot’s legs feel so weak and are shivering so much he can’t properly keep himself up, though, and he has to brace his chained arms against the Yankee’s chest.</p><p>He can feel the Yankee’s cock hardening through the uniform and it terrifies him.</p><p>He can’t take any more, his belly is hurting so badly from the inside as well as from the boot print on it. And although he can’t really see this one yet, it feels alarming.</p><p>His eyes start watering and he bites his lip to hide his rising fear.</p><p>”Like it? Like my fat American cock?” The huge Yankee asshole questions, noticing the pilot’s reaction and rutting against his shivering body excitedly.</p><p>The pilot whimpers, each brush against his bruised surface burning like sandpaper.</p><p>”Ohhh yes… I’ll make you ride my thick, circumcised American cock until you scream”, the Yankee growls and grabs the pilot’s ass roughly.</p><p>His fingers reach to touch the pilot’s abused, gaping hole, and the pilot lets out a pained gasp.</p><p>”I’ll tear your puffy virgin asshole apart and you’ll love it.”</p><p>The pilot looks at the Yankee, eyes stinging and a fresh edge of pain searing through his body.</p><p>”You… can’t be serious”, he hisses, trying to muffle a sobby chuckle.</p><p>The Yankee keeps poking his bleeding, ruined hole with his fingers like a piston.</p><p>”What are you even trying to do? You bastards have wrecked it already, I swear”, the pilot whines, a tear rolling down his cheek.</p><p>The Yankee looks at him, seeming surprised and angry, and groans:</p><p>”I’m fingering your ass?! To get you nice and ready?!”</p><p>The pilot doesn’t think this could even remotely help.</p><p>But feeling the enemy’s erection through his uniform, he decides that every moment he doesn’t have to be impaled on it is a relief.</p><p>He goes silent, besides the little gasps of pain he can no longer muffle, and closes his eyes.</p><p>The pain is dry and searing, like a worsening burn.</p><p>He tries to relax and catch his breath, maybe regain a little strength.</p><p>”Your slutty virgin ass is opening up for me”, the Yankee growls.</p><p>”Can someone stab me in the ear”, the pilot groans. This makes some of the Yankees crack up, and the mean-looking asshole pats his head.</p><p>
  <em>”Don’t appreciate poetry, Ritter?”</em>
</p><p>”None of you know shit about poetry”, the pilot hisses, tears rolling onto his cheeks.</p><p>The accusation is making him turn pale with rage. He bites his tongue, hard, to stop himself from arguing more, it’s not like these assholes would be worthy of that.</p><p>”Ahh… A poetry-reading pansy, are you?” The mean-looking Yankee cackles.</p><p>The huge bastard squeezes the pilot’s ass, making new bruises on top of previous ones, and rutting hungrily against his bloody crotch.</p><p>”I’m going to make you fuck yourself on my thick cock”, he tells the pilot, grinning darkly.</p><p>”How do you think you’ll make me?” The pilot spits.</p><p>”Either you do, or I’ll flip you over and shove the whole thing in at once. <em>Think you can handle that?”</em> There is smug certainty in the huge Yankee’s expression.</p><p>The pilot freezes.</p><p>The enemy’s member under him feels inhumane.</p><p>Thicker than his wrist for sure. Maybe thicker than his arm?</p><p>He bites his lip to stop a little whine from escaping.</p><p>He’ll die. This dumb Yankee bastard will kill him with his dumb Yankee cock.</p><p>It’s bad. Worse than being shot down, worse than being burned, probably even worse than drowning on that piss-board.</p><p><em>”I’ll do it”</em>, he hiccups wetly.</p><p>”Huh?” The huge Yankee grunts.</p><p>”I’ll sit on your fucking stick”, the pilot groans, turning his face away, and starts to sob.</p><p><br/><br/>When the huge soldier opens his fly and frees his member, the pilot wants to take his words back.</p><p>There’s no way he can make himself do this. His sobs turn into a panicked wail.</p><p>”No, wait! Wait, wait...”</p><p>”I am waiting… For fuck’s sake, don’t be such a pussy. Get on it”, the huge Yankee groans and grabs the pilot’s hips to lift him to a more available position.</p><p>”I… I will, just…” The pilot is shivering, his cheeks burning red with fury and terror. He gets himself up on his trembling knees and takes a deep breath.</p><p>”Let me do it myself, please…”</p><p>”Ah, well of course. You’ve started craving for our American cocks”, the asshole exclaims and pinches the pilot’s teary cheek.</p><p>”You’ll be such a willing slut, thinking about cock twenty-four–seven.”</p><p>”I’ll… what?” The pilot sobs, squinting at the Yankee bastard with tearful eyes.</p><p>”You’ll be thinking about thick, American cocks all day every day… Forget it, just get to the fucking”, the huge Yankee groans, rolling his eyes.</p><p>The pilot bites his lip and tries to adjust himself on the damn thing.</p><p>At least he’s bleeding, slicking the enemy’s member, and hopefully making this a little bit less excruciating for himself.</p><p>He takes a breath and lowers himself a little. The damn thing stings him like poking a fresh burn, startling the pilot.</p><p>He grits his teeth and positions himself back, falling ghastly pale.</p><p>”Ohh yes, fuck yourself on my thick cock”, the huge Yankee moans.</p><p>The pilot shoots him a quick, bitter glance, before concentrating back on violating himself on the Yankee’s bloody thing.</p><p>His muscles don’t really resist the intrusion at all, but the friction burns and stings so badly he has to whine out loud.</p><p>When he notices he’s barely gotten past the head, his heart sinks.</p><p>Even with his body slack and almost defeated, the enemy’s cock tears into him so savagely it makes his chest constrict as if he couldn’t breathe.</p><p><em>”It’s… too much...”</em> he whimpers quietly. The huge Yankee grabs the pilot’s hips in response, and looks at him daringly.</p><p>”Either you keep going, or I’ll show you what’s too much.”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes widen and he shakes his head.</p><p>”Wait, that’s… that’s not what I meant… please, don’t...” he pleads, digging his nails into his stabbed palm.</p><p>”Please, I’ll do it...” The pilot grits his teeth and starts working his hips up and down, tears streaming down his face and breath wheezing.</p><p>”Mmmh, that’s better… My cock’s going up your Nazi ass… My cock’s going up your ass...” The Yankee grunts, releasing the pilot’s hips.</p><p>”I… I noticed”, the pilot pants, struggling to breathe.</p><p>It hurts so bad, like the bastard is splitting him in half.</p><p>Even worse, it’s making his abused, stomped belly fill with an eerie sensation again.</p><p>He closes his eyes and tries to relax. Maybe, if he can just take this one, they’ll get tired of him and leave.</p><p>Just a little more, and they might let him rest…</p><p>”Now you’re getting the hang of it… Yesss, wreck your gaping asshole on my thick cock”, the Yankee groans.</p><p>The pilot wants to gag, but his body complies instead, sinking further on the intrusion. He lets out a breathless, startled moan.</p><p>The Yankee bastard grunts in delight, and thrusts up experimentally.</p><p>The pilot can keep himself quiet, but the damage is already done.</p><p>The Yankee is grinning, looking at the pilot’s tense jaw and blushing, wet cheeks.</p><p>”You like it? Yeah, baby, ride my fat cock until I’ll empty my heavy balls into your asshole”, the Yankee bastard tells him, observing in fascination as the pilot tries to move his hips along the bloodied member.</p><p>The pilot looks away, concentrating on anything but the sensation that’s creeping into his stomach.</p><p>It’s bad, worse than the pain. Maybe it is pain too.</p><p>It splashes against his nerves like something too hot and too cold and makes his legs feel numb.</p><p>He’s sinking down agonizingly slowly, his body fighting between the urge to flee and the desire to be over with all of this and lie down.</p><p>He’s halfway down the Yankee’s shaft and tears are rolling down his face with no end in sight.</p><p>”Mmmh, that’s it… Keep going, you’re such a good little cock-slut. Keep fucking yourself on my...”</p><p>”..fat, American cock?” the pilot hisses through gritted teeth.</p><p><em>”I swear I’ll be faster if you shut up.”</em> The pilot’s voice is muffled and harsh, he’s fighting against the sobs and moans that try to escape his lips.</p><p>It’s getting harder every moment to stay quiet, and he has to dig his finger into the stab wound in his palm to ignore the growing discomfort he’s in.</p><p>Moving his hips along the intrusion seems to help, though.</p><p>At least sort of.</p><p>Or maybe it’s getting worse?</p><p>The pilot thinks the pain is lessening, and he’s making some progress, sinking down on his trembling knees, agonizingly slowly.</p><p>His breath is getting labored, however, and his belly starts feeling warmer.</p><p>So warm it’s not comfortable any more, it feels like fever or like being washed in scalding water.</p><p>He rocks himself against the sensation, eyes closed, and tries to imagine it is hot liquid.</p><p>Being submerged in a bath from the waist down, ripples breaking against his abdomen one by one.</p><p>The pilot moans, a little wet sound he can’t hold back. His eyes flutter open and he bites his lip between his sharp, pearly teeth to muffle the sounds.</p><p>Whatever this is, it’s making his job easier.</p><p>Maybe he’s dying for real now.</p><p>Maybe something inside him has ruptured and he just has to wait for a little while before drifting away.</p><p>The pilot closes his eyes again, and goes back to the too hot bath.</p><p>The liquid ripples and bubbles against his skin, like close to boiling point. He sinks further and lets the searing heat embrace his body.</p><p>It’s good, in the same way poking an infected wound is good.</p><p>He wants to keep grinding against that discomfort, to keep poking at it until it breaks open and the pain goes away.</p><p>Somewhere in his pained haze, the pilot has become increasingly vocal.</p><p>The barren cell is as quiet as a winter morning after a ceasefire. Its windowless walls are silent, only the pilot's moans tearing through the veil.</p><p>The rest of the soldiers are leaning against the walls, some of them smoking, all of them watching the strange struggle with sick captivation.</p><p>Hissing moans and wails escape his mouth and he whimpers, impaling himself on the enemy’s cock, eyes closed and fists balled against the Yankee’s chest.</p><p>His head spins and the water is boiling.</p><p>His entire body feels sharp and red like the taste of Pervitin and the horizon at the exact moment of sunrise and his nerves are glass.</p><p>He suddenly feels the urge to cross that horizon, to go so fast and so far those glass nerves break and shatter into tiny fragments until he is no more.</p><p>Tears fall off his face, boiling hot, and his lips part to a wordless cry.</p><p>He’s shaking, eyes rolled back, and then the dawn breaks.</p><p>He’s above the horizon and below it, his shape is sizzling and his senses shatter in shining shards of the sun.</p><p>After daybreak, the night again.</p><p>
  <em>”Oh Ritter… You can really enjoy it, when you put your heart to it, see?”</em>
</p><p>The mean-looking Yankee purrs and crouches next to the pilot and the huge soldier.</p><p>The pilot blinks, catching his breath. The mean-looking bastard fondles his hair.</p><p>”Now that you’ve warmed him up, maybe let our boy O´Reilly participate too? What do you think, Ritter? Can you handle two?”</p><p><br/><br/>”I don’t know, Sarge. I’m… I’m good”, the young soldier with the awkward mustache mutters.</p><p>The pilot almost wants to thank him, but keeps his mouth shut.</p><p>”Oh, O’Reilly… No need to be shy”, the mean-looking Yankee says as he wraps his arm around the young soldier’s back.</p><p>”Teamwork is important. We all do our part. Don’t let us down, okay?”</p><p>”Okay”, the young soldier says quietly, eyes darting from the pilot to the other soldiers. He steps closer hesitantly.</p><p>”Want to use his mouth? I can turn him around”, the huge bastard offers, and the pilot whines. He thought things could not get any worse than this.</p><p>”I… Sure, Bonehead. Thanks”, the young Yankee responds.</p><p>The huge Yankee lifts the pilot’s slack figure up, and when the searing member leaves the pilot’s body, blood gushes out.</p><p>The pilot wails, biting his lip, and struggles to keep himself up when his knees and chained hands connect with the floor.</p><p>He’s feeling so dizzy. The horizon tilts, and the pilot would collapse, but the huge Yankee grabs his hips and holds him in place.</p><p>”Better? Now we can do him like… like lumberjacks”, the huge bastard announces.</p><p>The mustache Yankee circles slowly in front of the pilot and kneels down.</p><p>”Like… lumberjacks?” He repeats.</p><p>The huge bastard lines himself up against the pilot’s gaping hole and rubs it slowly with his tool, savoring the occasion.</p><p>”You know, lumberjacks? Like… Sawing a log?”</p><p>The pilot can see the young man rolling his eyes, and glances up at him.</p><p>The Yankee’s brow furrows and he grimaces in disgust, shaking his head.</p><p><em>”O’Reilly”</em>, the older soldier with a cigar says with a stern, commanding voice, and the young man startles and starts opening his fly.</p><p>The huge soldier behind the pilot gets back to drilling himself inside.</p><p>”No, no, no… Please no”, the pilot cries, his shaking arms collapsing under him.</p><p>The pain is making it hard to breathe, and he can just lie there, arms under his chest and cheek against the cold floor.</p><p>The mustache Yankee grabs the pilot’s hair and turns his face towards him.</p><p>”Fuck, you are disgusting”, the bastard hisses.</p><p>”Fucking Nazi piece of shit… You repulse me.”</p><p>”Don’t… Don’t do this then”, the pilot sobs, wincing at each thrust as his body is being violated.</p><p>The Yankee sneers and smacks the pilot’s face against the floor. The impact makes his cheek burn.</p><p>”I’ll fucking do whatever I want”, the Yankee grunts and smashes the pilot’s face against the floor again.</p><p>”Fucking Nazi piece of shit, don’t tell me what to do...”</p><p>The pilot’s face meets the floor again, hard and at a bad angle. White pain bursts in his jaw and slashes through his skull like lightning.</p><p>Blood splashes from his mouth, as the pilot feels something loose and sharp on his tongue and spits it out.</p><p>It’s one of his canine teeth, he recognizes hazily.</p><p>So… That’s what their roots look like. Or maybe it broke and a piece is still stuck in his jaw.</p><p>The pilot blinks, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His ears are ringing and his body feels distant.</p><p>The tooth glistens in pearly white and wet crimson.</p><p>The Yankee picks it up and observes it curiously, before slipping it in his pocket.</p><p>”Thanks, Nazi scum. I’ll get that made into a pendant and wear it as a good luck charm when we hammer your piece of shit Reich into the ground.”</p><p>That’s nice of him, the pilot thinks.</p><p>Nice in some odd way.</p><p>The scientists never wanted to keep anything of him that was no longer useful.</p><p>He wonders if the Yankees are going to toss him into a furnace when they are done with him.</p><p>That would be nice too…</p><p><br/><br/>”Think that’s enough gore for now, Ray? Come on, we want to keep his pretty cum-guzzling face recognizable”, the huge Yankee says in a low, appeasing tone.</p><p>”Let’s not make this gross, pal…”</p><p>The young soldier chuckles uncomfortably.</p><p>”Yeah…” He pulls his thing out of his uniform trousers, and the pilot realizes the Yankee is not even really hard.</p><p>He hurries to grab the pilot’s collar to get him back up, and shoves his awkward, soft thing against the pilot’s bloodied, bruised face.</p><p><em>”Now suck it”</em>, the Yankee hisses, like spitting out a curse. His gaze is turned away, hands balled to a fist, and the pilot almost feels sorry.</p><p>There is a gap in the pilot’s upper teeth. A spot of hot pain, like an exposed wire spitting sparks. Still, he feels like this Yankee is not to blame here.</p><p>He opens his mouth, slowly, and lets the soldier’s flaccid part slip in.</p><p>The huge bastard behind him seems to take it slow too, rocking against his hips almost carefully.</p><p>”His puffy, German lips are made for cock-sucking, huh Ray?” The huge soldier exclaims, giving the pilot’s ass an experimental slap.</p><p>”Just like his puffy asshole. Your asshole loves servicing American cocks, doesn’t it? Mmh, did they design you to be this juicy and tight on purpose, or was it a happy accident?”</p><p>The pilot lets out a sound, maybe a muffled profanity, and braces his cuffed hands better against the floor.</p><p>The pain in his insides is still hot and grinding like sand and poorly oiled machinery, but the vice grip of his muscles is giving out. It’s a relief.</p><p>Maybe his muscles are torn. Maybe his body has been ruined beyond its limits and he’s beginning to die. Whatever it is, it's barely comforting.</p><p>The pilot whimpers, the young soldier’s limp cock resting against his tongue.</p><p>”Suck it”, the Yankee hisses, and the pilot does so, trying to breathe through his nose as he slides his tongue along the thing.</p><p>”Yeah, suck his thick cock. Suck it good, show what your German cum-hole is worth”, the huge soldier encourages, squeezing the pilot’s hips.</p><p>”I bet you love being impaled on our cocks… Like a whole pork, being roasted”, he continues, and the young soldier with a mustache groans.</p><p>”Don’t call him pork, that’s fucking gross.”</p><p>The pilot whines when the huge soldier changes position a bit and his member grazes against the raw spot inside him that hurts in all the best and worst ways.</p><p>It’s like an infected wound, a glass shard in his flesh, or the knocked out tooth. He wants to grind against this pain.</p><p>”Yes, fuck your slutty ass on my cock, make yourself cum again”, the huge soldier growls. The pilot squeezes his eyes shut and rocks against the sandpaper pain, whining.</p><p>The other Yankee’s cock in his mouth is getting fuller, making it more difficult to breathe.</p><p>To draw in a bit of air, the pilot pulls his head back and licks the thing instead.</p><p>That makes the Yankee grunt approvingly, and the pilot continues, relieved to breathe freely as his tongue works on the soldier’s cock.</p><p>”Use that slutty tongue! Lap him up like Lassie! Mmh, bet you can’t wait for us to give some thick filling to your German cream pie”, the huge Yankee tells the pilot, ramming against the spot that makes his vision blur.</p><p>The pilot starts shivering.</p><p>His teeth would clatter if he didn’t hold his tongue out.</p><p>He feels his body flush hot again and moans.</p><p>It hurts. It hurts like a naval mine sunken into him or like fusion, radiating from his core, bright and searing.</p><p>The young Yankee with a mustache grabs the pilot’s hair and starts thrusting into his mouth.</p><p>Maybe to compensate the lack of participation, the pilot realizes.</p><p>His mouth has fallen slack and he’s only trying to stay up and alert at this point.</p><p>The feeling inside him is overwhelming. He can’t control his moans and sobs any more.</p><p>The huge soldier slides his hands under the pilot’s jacket and shirt and wraps his fingers around the pilot’s waist.</p><p>They reach almost all the way around, the pilot notices distantly.</p><p>This bastard is holding him like some sort of sickening, slack tube.</p><p>The Yankee’s grip is digging into his flesh, squeezing him so hard he can barely breathe. He feels his insides being compressed and moved out of the way.</p><p>The Yankee’s member pushes against his abdomen from the inside, where the soldier’s palm is stopping it from getting any deeper.</p><p>The pilot starts to pant, eyes rolling back. The mustache Yankee has to grab his shoulders to keep him up.</p><p><em>”You’re killing me”</em>, the pilot wants to cry, but the cock in his mouth is muffling the sound. The pressure is too much.</p><p>”I’m dying, please… I’m dying...”</p><p>The huge Yankee’s cock pushes past the unimaginable pressure with tearing force, ramming himself through the grip.</p><p>Something hot bursts inside the pilot’s body.</p><p>He’s momentarily paralyzed by the sensation.</p><p>The lines of his body are getting fuzzy.</p><p>He’s lead-heavy and light like smoke.</p><p>One of the huge Yankee’s palms travels to the pilot’s belly and feels around, studying the outlines of the cock buried deep inside him.</p><p>”So fucking good… Come on, you need to finish soon. I’ll bust my peanut butter into your sandwich any moment now”, the Yankee groans.</p><p>The young soldier grunts something reminding of an approval.</p><p>The pilot can’t answer. His body is unresponsive.</p><p>The pain inside him burns like a flare, until he can’t see anything but the blinding light and the absolute darkness.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>”Bloody hell… For a moment I thought I shot him dead”, a distant voice echoes.</p><p>”Never jizzed so hard it made someone pass out before. Has to be some sort of record!”</p><p>It’s the huge bastard of a Yankee.</p><p>The pilot’s cheek is resting against the floor.</p><p>He desperately wants to close his eyes and ears again and go back to the nowhere. But someone is behind him and chuckles, seeing the pilot come back to his senses.</p><p>
  <em>”Oh, Ritter, you’re back. Just in time to finish this.”</em>
</p><p>Something touches the pilot’s exposed hole. Something <em>thin.</em></p><p>Before he can make a sound, the thing slides into him.</p><p>Effortlessly, without resistance.</p><p>It goes on and on, and then it ends.</p><p>Everything. Ends.</p><p>
  <em>He’s been stabbed.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>”Walter, you stay and help me tidy up this mess. The rest of you, out.”</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Dark</h1><p> </p><p>
  <em>”You keep breathing there, Dove.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ritter lies on the floor, broken. Like a wilting flower or a dying bird. His sides are still moving, but the breaths are shallow and weak.</p><p>”You’re getting cocky, Laurie.”</p><p>The sergeant snaps back into full attention and turns towards his superior.</p><p>”Sir?!”</p><p>”A bayonet? Getting creative, boy?”</p><p>”Sir, I...” The sergeant hesitates, tracing his gloved finger across the scar on his brow.</p><p>”That is quite sick, Laurie… That is quite sick indeed.”</p><p>The sergeant blinks a couple of times, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think that’s a question.</p><p>Ritter on the floor is very still. Is he still awake, listening to them as his senses fade away?</p><p>Or has he drifted to unconsciousness, or crawled to the gentle arms of Death already?</p><p>”Was he to your liking, Laurie? Was it like you wanted it to be?”</p><p>The sergeant studies the pilot’s small, still form.</p><p>The pilot is damp and exposed, half-curled up into a bundle just barely larger than a child.</p><p>His blonde hair is dirty and wet, his pretty face hiding behind his arms.</p><p><em>Was</em> the pilot to his liking? If he was, that’s far gone now.</p><p>The poor bastard is pathetic now, a sorry corrupted image of beauty, tainted until it’s this sad, disgusting nothing.</p><p>”He’s… He’s disgusting, Sir. A disgusting German faggot that finally got what was coming for him”, the sergeant says slowly.</p><p>His superior looks at him, studying his face. The smoke of the cigar floats in the still air like morning mist.</p><p>”That’s all? All this trouble for you, boy, and that’s what you got? You seemed eager enough to go to town with him a while ago.”</p><p>”Oh, of course, Sir! I just...”</p><p>”Own up to it, then! Stop being a sissy and tell me about it.”</p><p>The sergeant glances at the pilot and a hue of red flushes on his cheeks.</p><p>”He was very much to my liking, Sir. Much more than I could have expected.”</p><p>”What did you like, Laurie?”</p><p>The sergeant licks his dry lips and closes his eyes.</p><p>”The skin… so pristine and white, just waiting to be tainted, like a clean sheet of paper, Sir”, he says quietly.</p><p>”And how did you like writing on that paper, boy?”</p><p>”Careless. In control. I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck and choke the fragile little spirit out of him.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Skies of heaven ... clear, ... you screeching bastard ... won't eve... reach them, ... matter how ... times we burn you ... crisp!" The radio crackles.<br/>Wind howls outside the cockpit.<br/>His engines roar and he’s alive, alive in a way these bastards will never understand.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The pilot on the ground makes a little sound and rolls onto his side. His eyes flutter open for a while, and his gaze scans the surroundings, looking for an anchor but finding nothing.</p><p>”Is that all, Laurie? Should have gotten you a fucking notebook instead...”</p><p>”He looks like a sick kid, Sir. A little, sick faggot. Perfect fucking parachute silk hair, paper face, ink freckles...”</p><p>The sergeant’s superior looks at him in the eye. A ghastly blue abyss that doesn’t let a single thought out.</p><p>”You are one sick, little faggot, you know that, Laurie?”</p><p> </p><p>”...Sir?”</p><p>”You need to get your act together, boy. Think no one notices? I do. You were all over that bitch like a lovesick little faggot.”</p><p>The sergeant’s face turns crimson. He fights against the urge to turn away or cover it with his hands.</p><p>”Sir, I… I didn’t think...”</p><p>”You can be all the depraved shit you want, Laurie. Be a fag, be a sadist, be a pederast and negro-fucker for all I care… But have some dignity, boy. Your fucking feelings are a weakness. A disgrace. Come here.”</p><p>The sergeant approaches hesitantly, and kneels next to his superior, by the pilot’s side.</p><p>His chest is still moving shallowly. A wet rattle, like a moth against a window, shudders through his body.</p><p>”Time to get over your weakness, don’t you think, Laurie?”</p><p>”Sir?” The sergeant’s face is too hot and his body is too cold.</p><p>The pilot’s eyes move behind his eyelids, like he’s glimpsing something secret and sacred, something the sergeant is forbidden to see.</p><p>”Time to become a man, boy. Break what makes you weak and become strong.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Stop bitching, Ritter! You get to fly the shiniest craft in the Reich, you can handle a little good luck charm!"<br/>Metal screeches against metal outside the cockpit.<br/>Pressurization roars and hums, the process already turned on, as these assholes are etching the damn thing in the tail.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Defiling his craft makes the pilot’s blood boil.</p><p>His Nachtmahr.</p><p>Innocent.</p><p>Backs lashed by starlight.</p><p>He opens his mouth and screams:</p><p>”Hands off, bastards!”</p><p>The sergeant recoils.</p><p>He doesn’t look mean now. There is an expression of shock in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Well look at that... The kid's still kicking", the older Yankee with a cigar chuckles, sliding his hand on the pilot's cheek.</p><p>The pilot shivers. The touch burns like phosphorus.</p><p>"Isn't that sweet, Laurie? He's hanging on to give you a chance to deal with your issues once and for all."</p><p>The pilot's gaze travels between the cigar man's cold smirk and the sergeant's blank stare.</p><p>They didn't expect him to be conscious.</p><p>He didn't either. His body is so heavy and far away, as if he could just barely detect it at the edge of his radar.</p><p>But it's still here, in this shallow hell where time has seized and where his body refuses to die.</p><p>"So, Laurie... what is it that you'd want to do with a man?"</p><p>"Sir?!" The sergeant's eyes are wide.</p><p>"Yes, Laurie? I asked, what is it that you'd want to do with a man. Would you like to kiss one? Would you like to kiss <em>me?"</em></p><p>The Yankee takes his cigar out of his mouth and leans down to kiss the pilot's bloody mouth.</p><p>The kiss tastes bitter and sour, suffocating like a cloud of toxic gas, and the pilot gags as the mouth lingers on his lips.</p><p>The Yankee backs away slowly and looks at the pale sergeant.</p><p>"Like that? Go ahead, Laurie. I won't tell... and neither will the kid."</p><p>The pilot observes as the Yankee descends towards him.</p><p>The man looks hesitant and wary. His lips are cool and dry, and he screws his eyes shut, avoiding the pilot's gaze.</p><p>"Don't be shy..." The cigar man slides his hand through the sergeant's hair.</p><p>The younger man <em>moans</em> against the pilot's lips and the pilot feels the soldier's face radiating heat against his clammy skin.</p><p>The pilot is holding on to his consciousness, fearing what the Yankees might do if he passes out.</p><p>When the sergeant's tongue slides against his lips, the pilot parts them and closes his eyes.</p><p>He's a thousand meters underwater.</p><p>The ocean is very quiet, the cold envelops him.</p><p>He can't breathe.</p><p>He doesn't want to breathe.</p><p>It's very cold, and completely dark...</p><p>The sergeant's lips depart and he's panting, face glowing crimson.</p><p>"How was that, Laurie?"</p><p>"It was... I, uh... I haven't done that before, Sir", the sergeant says breathlessly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.</p><p>The pilot watches him with a tinge of genuine curiosity. Done what?</p><p>The cigar man seems to be wondering too.</p><p>"Done what, boy?" His fingers travel under the sergeant's chin and he turns the man's face towards him.</p><p>"I... haven't kissed a man before, Sir."</p><p>A cold smile spreads on the older soldier's lips.</p><p>"Maybe you're not as far gone then... see, boy, you still haven't kissed a man. Look at that", he says quietly and turns the sergeant to face the pilot again.</p><p>"That's not a man, Laurie. That's <em>game</em>, that's your <em>victim</em>. You are strong and he's weak. You are a man, he's not. He's whatever you want him to be."</p><p>The pilot looks at the cigar-chewing Yankee and feels… almost sorry.</p><p>That thing moves and talks, but it’s just a husk. A shell.</p><p>Maybe it is a corpse that got back up from a trench and lit a new cigar.</p><p>Maybe it doesn’t know how to die either.</p><p>”That’s… not a man either”, he hisses, nodding towards the sorry bastard.</p><p>The sergeant frowns, but the pilot flashes them a bloody grin. His broken line of teeth glimmers.</p><p>The cigar Yankee shoots him a cold stare and turns back to the sergeant.</p><p>”Don’t be shy, boy. Don’t be sorry. That thing is nothing. You won, now enjoy the spoils. Go on...”</p><p>The sergeant hesitates for a while, then leans on the pilot again.</p><p>His gloved hands land on the pilot’s shoulders.</p><p>One of them is shivering, or maybe it’s both.</p><p>The pilot closes his eyes and prepares for the contact like he’d brace for crashing his plane into the sea.</p><p>At the moment of impact, there's just the cold. Not even the pain, just the emptiness.</p><p>Lack of air.</p><p>A cold longing.</p><p>The lights on the dashboard flicker and die as the ocean swallows him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I'm sorry, warrior, my brother... Go forth now, past the gates of Valhalla. Fly over the great void, away from the pain, maybe I'll meet you there at the edge of eternity."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>This is not a foreign voice. This is me, the pilot knows. Almost remembers.</p><p>When the Yankee withdraws, his lips ache with the pain of a kiss that was not this one. A soothing kiss, regretfully given. A tear is rolling down the pilot’s cheek.</p><p>”That’s more like it, Laurie. What else would you like?” The cigar man’s hand ghosts at the sergeant's neck.</p><p>The younger Yankee is pale and his cheeks are asphyxia-red, like a man dying of tuberculosis or a soldier under poison gas.</p><p>”I… don’t know, Sir”, he whispers.</p><p>The cigar man blows smoke in his face and grins slowly.</p><p>”How about you tell him exactly what’s on your mind. Consider it a confession, Laurie”, he says.</p><p>His hand slides on the sergeant’s uniform trousers and the pilot hears the sergeant gasp.</p><p>The sergeant is very quiet for a moment, and then he reaches his hand out to palm the cigar man’s crotch.</p><p>”I… I think you’re a fucking faggot, Ritter”, he whispers shakily, fumbling his superior’s fly open.</p><p>”I bet you enjoyed getting screwed. You did, didn’t you?”</p><p>The pilot’s eyelids are so heavy and his body is so light. He’s barely here. Just aether and smoke, lingering before he fades.</p><p>”I think <em>you</em> enjoyed it”, he answers, barely audible.</p><p>What could these Yankees even do anymore? Kill him faster?</p><p>”You… You just say that because you can’t deal with the fact guys made you <em>enjoy yourself</em>, fucking invert”, the sergeant hisses.</p><p>”Too bad you didn’t get to… do things with the other faggot.”</p><p>The pilot frowns. He’s too tired, too exhausted to follow the Yankee’s rambling train of thought.</p><p>”Your… fucking Russian sweetheart”, the sergeant pants. His trousers are now open and the other Yankee is touching him, making him shiver all over.</p><p>”The fucking pansy princess… His fucking <em>handkerchiefs</em> cost more than a week’s salary… Goddamn pretty faggot demanded a bathtub to soak with his fucking scented soaps… I shot him in the stomach, straight through his fucking designer jacket.”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes fly back open. He feels a hot rage flaring up in his chest and tears welling in his eyes.</p><p>”You shot him because… he was pretty?”</p><p>The pilot wants to scream but his voice is barely a whisper. His chest is burning but it feels almost good, much better than the cold numbness.</p><p>”You Yankees are fucking rabid animals...”</p><p>”Ooh, Ritter, he was... so very into you as well, did you know that?” The sergeant’s voice shakes.</p><p>The cigar man’s hand is moving on his cock, and he’s returning the service.</p><p>The pilot winces.</p><p>”He was just… doing his job. Are you just… that fucking jealous?” He wheezes.</p><p>His eyes are stinging so badly and he’d cry if he had the energy. These.. These monsters.</p><p>He can almost see the scarlet stain blooming on the Russian’s coat.</p><p>”Jealous? Oh Ritter, you are so fucking naive… He wasn’t ’<em>doing his job </em>’, he wanted to do terrible things to you. You… know what he did in the truck, when we transported you here?”</p><p>The pilot’s blood runs cold. No. No! His eyes go wide and he shakes his head. No sound comes out of his mouth.</p><p>”Oh yes, Ritter… The guy was crazy about you… He held you the whole way back, didn’t let us touch you, wanted to keep you all to himself…”</p><p>”What did he do?” The pilot sobs.</p><p>Tears start to stream down and his breath rattles wetly.</p><p>His body has felt like a dead weight for a good while now, sensations far gone, distant echoes from a battle far away.</p><p>Now his skin stings and burns like splashed with acid.</p><p>”Please… What did he do to me?” He begs, shivering like in high fever.</p><p>A cruel smile creeps on the sergeant’s face.</p><p>”Nothing, Ritter… Sweet nothing. Bandaged you up, held your head on his lap and secured you through the transport like some sort of fucked up pietà statue… He couldn’t stop looking at your fucked-up Nazi mug.”</p><p>The pilot feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.</p><p>He rests his head against the floor and screams internally. He wants to die and never come back.</p><p>”Maybe we should have ruined that for him before he died, huh Ritter? Could have made you fuck him bloody.”</p><p>The pilot goes from pale to a sickly, greenish hue.</p><p>His chest is heavy as if crushed under a weight and his eyes hum when his heart struggles to keep up.</p><p>”I’d never do that”, he sobs.</p><p>Something aches in his chest, like a poorly healed over scar. His vision is a dim blur of tears.</p><p>”Never? Not even if you knew what we were going to do if you didn’t? Wouldn’t you have done that for your pretty, starry-eyed Russian? I think he’d chosen you, Ritter.”</p><p>The pilot sinks to the dark place between the soldier’s words. His heart skips a beat.</p><p>”No… No, you didn’t… please, no.”</p><p> </p><p>”See, Laurie… It’s not too hard to deal with your little issue once you stop being a pussy”, the cigar man rasps.</p><p>The sergeant is working his hand on his superior’s crotch but the man’s expression remains almost unchanged. He shakes his head slowly.</p><p>”What is the sissy bullshit that keeps bothering you, boy? Not a nice little jerk-off with war buddies, so… What is it, Laurie? <em>Love? Comfort? Intimacy? </em>Be honest and maybe we can take care of this issue of yours once and for all.”</p><p>The sergeant looks almost pained and casts his gaze down, sighing.</p><p>”I don’t know, Sir.. I have no idea.” His words are shaky from emotion and his superior’s touch.</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are closed.</p><p>Be done already, he prays silently into the void. Be done and let me die for good.</p><p>”You know what I think, Laurie? It’s not love that you feel… It’s hate. Doesn’t this make your body hot all over? Doesn’t this make your heart pound and your head get light? When you look at him… Don’t you want to break him, Laurie?”</p><p>”I… Yeah, I guess I do, Sir”, the sergeant half-whispers.</p><p>”Tell me about that, Laurie”, his superior purrs.</p><p>”I… I want to break him, Sir. I want to dig my hands into his pristine paper skin and tear it apart. I want to squeeze him until his insides burst like blueberry jam. I want to claw his pretty eyes out and crush his sugar bones under something heavy”, the sergeant pants, eyes screwed shut.</p><p>”See, Laurie… You’re not a faggot”, the cigar man murmurs and pulls the younger soldier closer.</p><p>”That’s not love, Laurie. You hate the weakness you see. You want to conquer it and destroy it and become stronger, isn’t that right? Come on, now… Take your shirt off, let’s test the theory.”</p><p>”Sir?” The sergeant’s voice trembles.</p><p>”Shirt off, boy.”</p><p>The pilot sees through the haze of tears how the Yankee starts undressing out of his jacket and shirt.</p><p>There is a wet halo around his figure, like ashy rain cascading over him.</p><p>Maybe there's been a bombing?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Wait- don't undress him. I wouldn't want to take pity on that miserable wretch and forget that he's a Nazi war dog. After all, who could deny the added pleasure of defiling that uniform?"<br/>A voice with a metal echo, from somewhere dark the pilot can just barely remember exists.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The pilot lays in the wreck in bombed-out ruins. It’s raining hard.</p><p>He’s on an aircraft carrier, hosed down with cold water.</p><p>He’s laying on his bed, covered in cold sweat, bleeding.</p><p>A little fragment of the pilot is still laying on the floor in the Yankee cell, and tears are streaming down his cheeks.</p><p>The sergeant has rolled him on his back and is straddling his hips, shivering in the cold.</p><p>His surface is engraved like a topographic map.</p><p>Bombed out like a war zone or the face of the Moon.</p><p>Trenches dug into his skin and flesh. Trenches and craters.</p><p>Knife slashes and cigar burns, the pilot recognizes slowly.</p><p>”Does he… hurt you too?” The pilot tries to ask, barely audible.</p><p>The sergeant’s palm strikes him on the cheek, silencing him fast.</p><p>The pilot closes his mouth and swallows blood. It tastes like warm metal. Not like the Iron Cross the Yankees made him swallow…</p><p>Like the feel of sunlight against his craft.</p><p>Or like the paper clips and coins in the lab.</p><p>Fallen on the floor and forgotten.</p><p>Maybe he’s fallen and forgotten too, and this is the end.</p><p>Or maybe someone will find him, like he found the coins...</p><p> </p><p>”Don’t be shy now, Laurie. Pull his shirt up.”</p><p>Cold, damp hands slide across the pilot’s body and push the fabric of his shirt out of the way.</p><p>The boot print in his flesh is dark, like an oil spill. The impossible colours ripple on the surface.</p><p>”Sir, I...”</p><p>”Laurie.” The cigar man’s voice is low and steady. <em>A warning.</em></p><p>The sergeant falls silent and his mouth descends against the pilot’s ear.</p><p><em>”Quiet.”</em> The order is just barely audible. Order? Plea? The pilot isn’t sure.</p><p>The whisper turns into a cold kiss against the pilot’s neck. All teeth and sharp edges, no tenderness. Just a war machine.</p><p>Machines don’t pilot themselves.</p><p>”It’s okay, boy. You can touch him. Go ahead.”</p><p>The cool hands rake across the pilot’s crumbling chest. His broken ribs ache distantly.</p><p>The sergeant’s fingers pinch the pilot’s nipples and turn them like dials.</p><p>The pilot whines, biting his lip. His body is so numb otherwise… why does this still have to register?</p><p>”Oh, Ritter...” the Yankee mutters, putting their mouths together again.</p><p>He’s breathing fast, like in pain. The pilot’s blood is dripping down his lips and into the sergeant’s mouth. It feels like suffocating.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Would you kindly .. cooperate? We can hide you comfortably in our cabin... You would just have to open your legs on demand like a gracious whore, and nothing untoward should happen to you. A very reasonable price, to live another day and pay for your crimes …"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A chill runs down the pilot’s spine. He turns his head on the side.</p><p>”No”, he gasps.</p><p>The air tastes like bitter smoke and fear. His vision is getting darker, ash hovering mid-air like the world is stuck to a single second.</p><p>The crack between what has been and what never will be again is growing into a dark rift. The rift is swallowing hope and washing away mythical words of heroes and love and starlight.</p><p>”No, stop...”</p><p>”<em>No-one will ever want a broken faggot like you, Ritter</em>”, the Yankee breathes into the pilot’s bloody mouth.</p><p>”<em>No-one will ever want you</em>.”</p><p>His mouth slides down, down the pilot’s shivering throat and across his rattling chest. The cold lips wrap around his nipple in the mockery of a kiss.</p><p>”<em>You’re such a fuck-up… Should have never been born...</em>” The wet words are whispered against the pilot’s fluttering chest like a confession.</p><p>Tears are streaming down the pilot’s cheeks, he’s not even trying to confine the stream any more.</p><p>”Shh… Stop... stop, stop...” He whispers over and over again like a prayer, lips beginning to grow numb.</p><p>”<em>Should have offed yourself rather than becoming like this</em>”, the sergeant mutters, fingers drawing hazy, invisible lines into the pilot’s body.</p><p>”<em>… good for nothing, nothing at all, couldn’t even do that...</em>”</p><p>”Good boy, Laurie… now, fuck him”, the cigar man commands.</p><p>The sergeant startles, lifting his wet face from the pilot’s chest.</p><p>”Sir?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"An Übermensch in flesh... And yet, an utter failure. What cruel twist of fate gave such power to a feral animal like you? If the animal doesn't obey, its masters will put it down. You think you're strong, Ritter. But what is that against our numbers? Can the animal count?"<br/>The voice smells of fear and blood, but the words echo empty.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The pilot feels the soldier pushing his legs apart and getting between them.</p><p>He can’t resist.</p><p>His eyelids are lead and his breath is carbon dioxide.</p><p>There is no air in the cockpit. No sound in the radio. No light.</p><p>He is sinking.</p><p> </p><p>”Sir, he has the bayonet in there...” The sergeant mutters, face flushed with sweat and heat.</p><p>”You put it blade first, didn’t you, boy?” His superior rasps, taking the cigar between his fingers and studying its glowing head.</p><p>”I did, Sir… Of course.”</p><p>”Then what is the problem?”</p><p>The sergeant starts fumbling his belt open to get the trousers down. When his superior speaks, the man’s hands freeze mid-air.</p><p>”You can’t just do it, Laurie. You need to mean it. Do you really mean it, or are you a little wimp?”</p><p>”I mean it, Sir! I really do, I swear!”</p><p>”<em>Really</em>, Laurie? You <em>really</em> mean it?”</p><p>”Yes, Sir, please, I...” the sergeant’s sob drowns into a muffled groan. The scent of smoke and burning flesh arises from his shoulder.</p><p>His superior grinds the smouldering cigar down for a bit before tossing it onto the unmoving pilot’s body.</p><p>”Let’s see how real your volition is, boy.”</p><p>”I… I actually need to go, Sir”, the sergeant mutters, unable to lift his gaze to his superior.</p><p>He’s grabbed the Ritter’s shirt at some point, gripping the fabric so hard his knuckles are white and fingertips turn red, as if dipped in blood or scarlet ink.</p><p>”You don’t need to go anywhere, Laurie.” His superior’s voice is so cold, and yet it pours molten lead into his veins.</p><p>”No, Sir… I mean I need to <em>go</em>...”</p><p>”Spit it out, Laurie.”</p><p>The sergeant’s face is heating up and the cigar mark on his shoulder is radiating heat as if still burning. Maybe it is, like an underground coal fire.</p><p>His stomach feels like that too, being eaten up from the inside and consumed by the invisible flames.</p><p>”I need to take a leak, Sir”, he half-whimpers.</p><p>”Yes, so? Where is the problem, boy?” There is a thinly veiled threat in the voice.</p><p>”I could… quickly go take a leak and come back, Sir”, the sergeant breathes, still not letting go of Ritter’s stained shirt.</p><p>His superior’s hand ghosts on his neck before grabbing his hair.</p><p>”What is it with you and pissing, Laurie? Always sneaking off to take a leak behind the corner. Are you a bed-wetting virgin or what?” His voice is sharp and his vice grip hard.</p><p>The sergeant can’t even respond, voice getting caught in his burning throat. He tries to shake his head, too fast.</p><p>”You’re going to go right here, Laurie, and I’m going to watch. He’s right there.”</p><p>”Sir?” You don’t mean…?”</p><p>”You know damn well what I mean, wimp.”</p><p>The sergeant’s eyes are watering. The pilot lies under him, unresponsive, the gash between his legs leaking dark blood onto the floor.</p><p>The blood flow is slow, almost frozen in time, and the mess spreads under the pilot like a puddle of darkness.</p><p>”If you don’t do it right now, Laurie, I will take you out there and make you piss yourself in front of everyone.”</p><p>The sergeant’s eyes widen. His superior lets go of his hair and grins.</p><p>”Go ahead then, boy. Stick it up his filthy hole and let me see what you’re made of.”</p><p>The sergeant fumbles blindly the pilot’s legs further apart, gripping his own softening cock and stroking it haphazardly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Poor youth... It is said that one of the defenders of the skies can cheat death, but you were one of the unlucky ones. I wish the day would come where your sacrifice wasn’t in vain, but I know better... What a waste, waging war only for young boys to die, chasing fleeting dreams of glory, when you should be reaching for a joyful tomorrow...” A gentle, old voice. A civilian, kneeling over him?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The flames are dying down and rain flows down the pilot’s face. He can’t open his eyes.</p><p>The lower parts of his body are not there any more.</p><p>Maybe he’s crushed under the wreckage, or perhaps the rest has been cut off by falling debris.</p><p>He wants to thank this gentle soul who’s holding his hand and cry for the ones that have been lost, and all those who’ll be lost still, but he’s out of strength to cry.</p><p>The sky is crying in his stead, and rain runs into the tears in his flesh.</p><p> </p><p>A burning pain, like kerosene poured over open wounds.</p><p>The pilot gasps, trying to adjust to the pain.</p><p>The sergeant, pale and shaking, has rammed his half-hard cock into the pilot’s bleeding hole, and there is fire.</p><p>White-hot chemical burn starts to spread into his paralyzed body.</p><p>When the pilot opens his mouth to cry out, the cigar man grabs his jaw and shoves his cock into the pilot’s mouth.</p><p>Before the pilot can take a breath, piss starts to flow into his mouth, down his throat and out of his burning nose as he tries to cough and gag for air.</p><p>Pain, like the core of his body melting against the tide of acid, is flushing through him.</p><p>He’s drowning, he’s burning up and the piss is seeping through the tears in his throat and the ones in his gut.</p><p>It’s agony he’s never felt before, a scorching blaze eating his paper shell from inside out.</p><p>The piss in his mouth feels like his throat’s been cut open and he’s drowning in the blood.</p><p>To fight the suffocation he swallows and swallows, drinks up as much of the vile liquid he can, writhing in agony.</p><p>”Such a sick, pathetic creature… You’ve gotten nothing but pain and filth and still keep lapping it up”, the cigar man grunts.</p><p>The sergeant doesn’t say anything.</p><p>The heat and pressure in the pilot’s belly grows until he’s sure his skin will burst open, and then some more.</p><p>He can’t feel the outlines of the bayonet, just an all-encompassing burning agony, his whole body melting while his brain still refuses to shut down.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>”Coins again? Don’t you remember what happened last time? No way we’re wasting anaesthetics on you and your childish whims this time.” A voice, clinical and cold, smelling of formaldehyde and soap.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rum is making the room sway. His knees are suddenly weak, and his head is so very heavy.</p><p>Is this what they meant? The bottle is slipping from his hand and his insides are stinging around the sweet burn of the alcohol.</p><p>He’s vomiting hard. There is blood and bile on the floor, and a glimmering piece of copper, like a star.</p><p>He wants to swallow it again. The scientists tell him no.</p><p>The bed is soaked in blood, like a red ocean.</p><p>He wants to sink into it, wants to submerge under the crimson waves and close his eyes and float towards the bottomless deep where there’s no longer pain.</p><p>Someone, maybe the Yankee sergeant, is grabbing his hips and thrusting into the wet agony that is his body, and hot mess leaks out.</p><p>It is piss and blood.</p><p>The sergeant leans down and breathes against his neck as he’s ramming against the handle of the bayonet.</p><p>The pilot’s gut is splashing like a canister of fuel.</p><p>It’s the rum the crew has encouraged him to chug up there and he’s in trouble now, making a mess.</p><p>He wants to get up and clean it but his legs don’t carry him like they’re supposed to.</p><p>He tries to fumble the neck of the bottle back in but his hole is stinging and his hands are clumsy and his grip keeps slipping.</p><p>The sergeant ruts against the bayonet and more liquid keeps spewing out.</p><p>It’s blood and pieces of his messed-up organs.</p><p>He’s not supposed to touch, just to lie still. There’s a pillow under his legs, under the rubber sheet.</p><p>A cannula is strapped to his arm with bandages and his hand is cuffed to the bedside so he doesn’t rip it off again.</p><p>The sergeant has grabbed his legs to lift his ass and expose his leaking hole for further assault.</p><p>He is being cut open.</p><p>The enemy’s cock is tearing into him.</p><p>The bayonet is ripping him from the inside.</p><p>A scalpel is cutting into his flesh, and he smells chlorine and blood.</p><p>The lab is white and he is red, red from the inside and out, and he can’t stop screaming.</p><p>The door opens and gentle darkness floods in.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"You're getting too old for that, Eibisch. I can't hold you in my arms anymore, people might get ideas otherwise, you know. Or maybe you don't know…" A hushed voice. The fabric of a lab coat against his cheek and the smell of of cigarettes, smoked one after another, and of dusty manuscripts. The Professor has come to take him to rest.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The victim has fallen unresponsive, lips purple: asphyxia.</p><p>Sweat and tears are glistening on Laurie’s face and his thresholds are breaking down.</p><p>There is a delirious gleam of bliss and defeat in his eyes as he stabs himself into the victim’s body and against the handle of the bayonet. The splatter of bloody piss has wet the front of his trousers.</p><p>”Enjoying yourself, boy?”</p><p>Laurie looks but doesn’t respond. The muscles in his jaw tremble.</p><p>”I asked you a question, Laurie.”</p><p>The response is a broken whine. The boy’s eyes are red and wide, and his cheeks are smudged with tears and dirt.</p><p>”Let’s hear it from you, boy.”</p><p>Barrel of a gun between the naked shoulder blades.</p><p>The bullet would tear a heart artery clean open.</p><p>Not much victory in that, just a fast end. The cold metal loosens the boy’s tongue.</p><p>”I hate it, Sir… I hate it, I hate him, I hate everything about this, Sir. All this mess… He’s so filthy on the inside. The… God, it’s like the world’s most disgusting bathtub. There’s just wet mess, I can’t feel anything, Sir. He’s...”</p><p>Laurie’s muscles are rigid and twitchy under the clammy skin. He doesn't lean to the touch, but doesn’t lean away either.</p><p>The gun slides up along his spine and stops at the base of his skull.</p><p>”Still feeling queer, boy?”</p><p>”No, Sir! No, no, I hate everything about this”, the boy sobs, squeezing the pilot’s thighs, knuckles white and hands trembling.</p><p>”That’s my good boy, Laurie… That’s my good boy. Now… Let’s see how badly you’ve ruined that meat.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Engines whirr, ready for take-off. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>When the cock pulls out, blood and piss gush out. The victim’s hole gapes open: all muscle tension is gone.</p><p>There’s a view deep into the victim’s wet, crimson guts.</p><p>Laurie’s desperate thrusting has rammed the bayonet deeper. Its tip must be pressed against the victim’s diaphragm, or maybe lodged into it, ready to smoothly slice it it in half.</p><p>”Such a pretty thing, isn’t it, Laurie? No longer a man, just a gorgeous cock sleeve in a uniform for us to use…”</p><p>A kiss travels across Laurie’s shivering neck like the tip of a blade and his pale skin flushes red at the contact.</p><p>The boy’s far gone, ready to do anything he’s told.</p><p>”S-Sir?”</p><p>”We’re not done here. Now you’ll fuck him nicely with me. All that invert bullshit’s gone from your mind, right? Come on, Laurie… Just you and me, enjoying the hard-earned prize. No shame in that, come here, boy.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Keys jingle. They could open the door… But they don’t. The metal echoes fade further and further and disappear.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Laurie lets out a whine as his superior presses their cocks together and starts stroking them harshly.</p><p>”That’s my good boy… Embrace what you’re made for.”</p><p>A long, broken wail escapes the sergeant’s lips. He’s too hot and too cold, too sensitive and so numb he can barely feel the friction.</p><p>His breath comes in pained gasps and the touch along his member stings like acid.</p><p>When his superior’s lips collide with his and the man breathes bitter smoke in his mouth, the sergeant stiffens, preparing for a new burn. It doesn’t come this time.</p><p>Instead, his superior’s mouth stays on his until he feels like suffocating and his head spins. He can’t pull away, tears of shame and asphyxia are streaming down his cheeks and then the man bites him.</p><p>Teeth sink deep into Laurie’s bottom lip and his superior keeps stroking both of their cocks roughly when Laurie yelps and instinctively jerks his head back.</p><p>”Don’t be shy, boy… I know you liked that.” His superior licks blood off the sergeant’s chin.</p><p>”Now, let’s get into the fucked-up mess you’ve made, Laurie.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Maybe someday you'll meet someone worthy of taking care of you, Eibisch. But not today."<br/>The Professor’s sleeve slides away from his grip but the scent of lavender and cigarettes lingers.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A tide of despicable fluids gushes out of Ritter’s hole.</p><p>Maybe he is dead.</p><p>Hopefully he is dead.</p><p>The sergeant doesn’t see any more movement in the pilot’s defiled body, and when his superior rams their cocks in, there’s no muscle resistance.</p><p>The only obstacle is the bayonet handle. Rutting against it hurts, but his superior has a hand wrapped against the sergeant’s hips and keeps fucking both of them into the filthy orifice.</p><p>Laurie winces as he feels more and more wet mess pooling at the front of his trousers. It cools as soon as it leaks out.</p><p>The inside of the dead pilot is still hot, though, hot like fever or a fresh burn.</p><p>"Feels good, doesn't it, boy? Much better than sleeping with a pretentious date."</p><p>"I wouldn't know, Sir", Laurie sobs. His stomach is rolled into tight knots and he feels sick.</p><p>His superior turns to look at him.</p><p>"You would not know", his superior says slowly.</p><p>Laurie's stomach churns and cold sweat streams down his back.</p><p>"How many people you've slept with exactly, Laurie?"</p><p>A dead silence. Sweat and tears are dripping down from Laurie's face and onto the pilot's discoloured skin.</p><p>"Oh, Laurie..." His superior puts a hand on his cheek and turns his face towards himself.</p><p>"You really kept yourself all nice and pure, didn't you? A good little Christian boy scout... Such a good boy you are, Laurie. The kid whose teeth you kicked in... that one was your first?"</p><p>"The crashed boy? He was, Sir... I had been in fights before, but... I never thought it would go so far", Laurie sobs. His teeth are clenched and his eyes are bloodshot and wet.</p><p>"I never meant things to go this far, Sir..."</p><p>"But you did, Laurie. You did from the very beginning. Drunk on power and blood. Have you heard yourself speak, boy? You are no bystander."</p><p>His superior's breath hovers over Laurie's ear.</p><p>"You're meant for this, Laurie. You enjoy this. The wounded pilot boy... You fucked his bloody mouth with glee, didn't you? And the kid whose finger you cut off? No-one made you do that, that was all you. That's who you are."</p><p>"I... I did that, Sir", Laurie whispers. Hesitation floats in the air, thickens and turns into fear. He shuts his trembling lips and swallows bile and forbidden words.</p><p>His superior's hand holds him against the dead pilot almost gently... but when he tries to pull away, the embrace turns into a tether that doesn't let him retreat.</p><p>"How you comforted that pilot kid, Laurie... for a moment I thought you were prey, like him. But you proved otherwise. Own up to it now. Don't lie to me, boy, this is who you are."</p><p>Laurie has stopped moving.</p><p>He's cold and very still, like Ritter is, and he's wishing he was dead too.</p><p>He could stop if he was dead.</p><p>"What about the pretty boy with baby blue eyes, Laurie? You were raging hard when you stabbed him in the stomach... I jerked you off after that, when McMurphy was disposing of the body. Why the cold feet now, boy? I thought you were more than a little crying mama's boy."</p><p>"My mom... oh god, my mom..." Laurie buries his face into his filthy, bloody palms, and starts sobbing harder.</p><p>"I can never touch my mom again, I'm too filthy, Sir… I can never hug my mom again."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I'm so sorry, Heartling... your precious sight might not even see life in full, but at least... I'll take care of you as long as Fate allows me. You will always be my little boy... and they'll never want to take you away, throwing you into the tidal waves of war in which your dad was lost..." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Boy, quit the weeping and man up." Laurie's superior grabs his wrists and pulls them away from his teary face.</p><p>"I'm so sorry... I want to tell her I'm so sorry for everything... She'll be all alone..." Laurie's whole body trembles.</p><p>He's gone completely limp. He'd crumble onto Ritter if his superior didn't hold his wrists with bruising force.</p><p>"Laurie, quit it now or I will."</p><p>"Let go of me, Sir... let me go, I don't want to any more, please let me go…"</p><p>The pilot lies still, looking almost serene. His skin is cool but warmth still radiates from underneath.</p><p>Laurie's superior grabs his hair and pushes him face down against the defiled corpse.</p><p>Laurie's cheek grinds against the pilot's chest.</p><p>He doesn't fight it.</p><p>”Cut the bullshit, Laurie. Don’t lie to yourself.”</p><p>His superior yanks his trousers down with a harsh motion.</p><p>The touch sears his flesh. His skin disperses like burned paper.</p><p>Laurie bites his tongue and cries, shielding his face with his hand.</p><p>Tears and silent pleas and prayers are streaming down onto the pilot’s cold skin, like on a ruined altar.</p><p>There are no candles left, no hymns.</p><p>Just rain falling into a desecrated temple through the torn-open roof.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A fast, thumping beat, like a radial piston. Cool touch against his chest.<br/>”Hear that? That’s your heart, still working. As long as it does, everything is possible. Keep listening to it, Eibisch. Maybe you'll be better tomorrow, just keep listening…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Behind Laurie, the rumble of artillery. Smoke, trenches, corpses, fire.</p><p>In front of him, nothing but death.</p><p>His honour is ripped away, torn from him like a badge he no longer earns.</p><p>A charge of pain drives through him like a bayonet.</p><p>He calls out, into the abandoned halls of heaven, calls for mercy, but there is no-one to hear his prayer.</p><p>Virtue bleeds out of him, spurts out in the pace of his breaking heart.</p><p>Explosions make the ground shudder.</p><p>Everything around him is collapsing.</p><p>Laurie bows his head and prays for Death.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"The black waters are churning... This is bad luck. Don't take to the sea over such bad omen, or you'll end fathoms under the malstrøm. Who knows what could return to the surface in your stead…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Laurie has fallen completely silent.</p><p>His shoulders are shuddering in the pace of the thrusts and sobs. He has not even said no. He has stopped resisting.</p><p>The pilot kid lies dead on the floor, displaying Laurie’s form on it like a fine hunting trophy. A landscape of ultimate submission and defeat.</p><p>”You look great like this, boy. This is how I want to see you from now on.”</p><p>Laurie’s muscles are tense, his breath a sobbing rasp.</p><p>His insides are hot. Just friction and pain, without a hint of pleasure. When the cock stabs into him, Laurie doesn’t even whine.</p><p>”You sound perfect too, you know that? Keeping your witty mouth shut and accepting your place. This is all you’ll ever be good for, Laurie. You’re <em>nothing</em>.”</p><p>Laurie remains silent, like a corpse.</p><p>The pilot’s ruined face looks interesting. Decay is creeping along his features.</p><p>Even in death, the victim seems to be crying: a black oil spill drips from behind his eyelids.</p><p>Maybe the rough handling has ruptured something behind his nasal cavity.</p><p>”The way you kept looking at the kid was quite cute, Laurie… And the way you destroyed him was even better. You’re just a sick little faggot, too damaged to feel anything but hate. Tell me, boy, do you hate me too?”</p><p>There is no response. Just a twitch of Laurie’s white knuckles as he holds on to the pilot’s tainted jacket.</p><p>The black, coagulating blood rolls down the corpse’s cheek like a teardrop.</p><p>The cool muzzle of a gun kisses the back of Laurie’s neck.</p><p>”I asked you a question, boy.”</p><p>Laurie makes a choked sound but does not answer, doesn’t even jerk away.</p><p>”I think you do, Laurie. I think you loathe me. But you know who you are: just a weak, bed-wetting faggot and you know that. You’re no-one without me, and you’ll never be.”</p><p>”… stop”, Laurie breathes. It is hardly even a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>From crimson zenith to bismuth rings, diving doves through raging blue...<br/>Child, reach out and touch the face of the night, light the beacon of kept secrets.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The pilot reaches out, through the void.</p><p>He reaches far, feels the shady edges of reality tremble.</p><p>His hands break through the surface and into the cold.</p><p>There is cold metal against his stabbed palm. He grasps it and yanks. It comes loose and he tosses it as far away as he can.</p><p>The weight against his chest shifts and the pilot hears a startled gasp.</p><p>He peels his lead eyelids open and sees Laurie’s bloodshot, teary eyes looking back.</p><p>”Enough”, the pilot groans.</p><p>There is no air in his lungs. The sounds comes out as a choked gurgle.</p><p>His chained arms wrap around the crying man and hold tight.</p><p>His numb legs come back to life and he starts kicking and thrashing to pull Laurie away from the cigar man’s grasp.</p><p>”Enough, he said stop!”</p><p>Tears are streaming down the pilot’s cheeks. The man in his embrace is still, paralyzed by fear, and the pilot pulls him closer, teeth bared.</p><p>The cigar man stares. His gaze is locked into the pilot's and he’s let go of Laurie, hands frozen mid-air.</p><p>”Time to quit.” The pilot struggles to lift himself and Laurie up.</p><p>He’s intoxicated with pain and rage, heart beating like a war drum and head light like surging through the clouds. Black oil is dripping down his face.</p><p>”Your sons would be ashamed. They won't miss you.”</p><p>The cigar man lets out a broken sound, gets up and runs out of the room.</p><p>The pilot sighs and collapses onto his knees, Laurie still paralyzed in his embrace.</p><p>”Ritter?” A whisper of disbelief and wonder.</p><p>The pilot can’t answer. He presses his forehead against the man’s head.</p><p>A moment passes.</p><p>Maybe a thousand.</p><p>Laurie raises his head slowly, a blank, shell-shocked gaze in his eyes.</p><p>”I need to go wash up.” He sinks away from the pilot’s arms and gets onto his shaking legs like in a dream.</p><p>He limps out, leaving the door half-open. The cigar man’s gun is still resting on the floor, shimmering like a distant star.</p><p>Freedom is just a few meters away…</p><p>The pilot’s muscles give out and he slumps against the floor, heaving.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Scarlet Dawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Scarlet Dawn</h1><p> </p><p>”We don’t have to go back yet. You can take a break if you need it.” Valeri’s hand sets on top of the medic’s wrist softly.</p><p>The medic, Alan, shakes his head quickly. Sweat shimmers on his skin.</p><p>Warm spring sun is beaming down, but it’s still chilly enough for Valeri to keep a fine wool scarf wrapped around his neck.</p><p>”No need, sir. I just had a pint. A normal lunch break, really. I can drive.” He opens the car door and starts lifting Valeri’s purchases inside.</p><p>”Alan, comrade. I don’t mean the pint you had.”</p><p>The medic turns slowly around, setting the apothecary’s paper bag back down.</p><p>”Sir?”</p><p>”If you need a little break to readjust, we still have time for that, that’s all. You can take a nap in the car, have something to eat, and then we'll head back. I saw a bakery down the street, I can go there to take a look at my notes while you rest. I’d offer to drive but the US Army has not made manual driving a standard in their vehicles.”</p><p>Valeri smiles at Alan and the man smiles back, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They remain dazed, shrouded by a shadow of pain and exhaustion.</p><p>”No need, sir. I’ll drive, all good, let me just...”</p><p>”Comrade, you are visibly under the influence. We are not in a hurry. If a nap doesn’t sound preferable, how about we sit down in the car, chat and have some pastries?”</p><p>The medic’s green eyes widen and he turns pale.</p><p>”No, that’s… Okay, let’s get in the car, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>The exterior of the pastries crumbles at the slightest touch, like burned paper or ancient silk.</p><p>”The secret, comrade, is to fold the dough, roll it and fold over and over again. The dough will still look like a solid piece but in reality, it’s layers upon layers, formed under utmost pressure. And when the conditions are just right, it will rise up more refined and delicate than any regular dough.”</p><p>Alan is very quiet for a moment, then lifts his gaze from the puff pastry he’s been handed and looks at Valeri hesitantly.</p><p>”Will you… inform my superiors, sir?”</p><p>”When I was a boy, I could not join my peers in their adventures and play. Instead, my mother taught me to bake and to love books. And she kept insisting I invite my estranged classmates over, and made sure we had plenty of tea and jam and pie while we studied together or played chess or cards or scribbled stories in the garden, for she believed pastries and human kindness are essential for the heart.”</p><p>Alan starts shaking and leans over the steering wheel, eyes closed.</p><p>”I still go back all the time. With every slam of a door, every time someone as much as raises their voice… Do you think I’ll ever get out, sir?”</p><p>”The only things that can hold us in captivity are within us, comrade. Everything on the outside is ever-changing, wondrous and terrifying. A world of horror, for sure, but also of mystery. Curiosity. Discovery.”</p><p>Alan raises his head slowly and turns to look at Valeri. His effortlessly wrapped, fine red scarf. Smooth leather driving gloves, holding a pastry in a napkin. The spotless leg braces and his relaxed smirk.</p><p>”Hard to imagine you as a captive, sir.”</p><p>”I’ve let myself out, comrade. I’ve let myself to come out for good. I’m sure you can do that too, Alan. One step at a time. Sometimes we need a crutch, sometimes it’s there to stay, sometimes we can discard it eventually. But what we can do is select the best kind of crutch, one that helps you get back up and doesn’t hurt you while you go forward.”</p><p> </p><p>Countryside flows past slowly. This sleepy landscape, still largely untouched by the war, is painted warm red and orange by the rays of setting sun.</p><p>The material gathering, though planned to take no more than four – five hours, has been a tremendous success.</p><p>Valeri has found a satisfactory amount of items on his list, located his comrades and had a hearty meal with them and his new British friend. The day is just a nightcap away from perfect.</p><p>Maybe tomorrow he can let his Dove out of the dim cell and have a proper conversation.</p><p>”That pilot of yours… No offense, sir, but it creeps the living shit out of me. A literal monster, like something that crawled straight out from a nightmare or an overdose delirium.”</p><p>Alan presses his lips together so tightly they turn white. Valeri looks at him in surprise.</p><p>”My Ritter? He’s… I see why you’d say that, but I must disagree, comrade. He is no monster, maybe even less so than the average man.”</p><p>”You Russians are a peculiar bunch, sir. Do you perhaps hold a bear as a pet and feed it treats from your hand?”</p><p>A smirk creeps on on Valeri’s lips.</p><p>”Oh, just doves, comrade. Just doves… But I’m not saying he’s not dangerous. He certainly is. Just like a weapon is dangerous. But a weapon, left alone in peace, will do no harm whatsoever.”</p><p>”How do you know he’s a weapon and not a dangerous madman wielding one?”</p><p>”The same could be asked of any and all soldiers, don’t you think? Any one of us, stripped from our normalcy and identity and handed a gun, could turn into one.”</p><p>Alan stares outside, taking in the silence of the hills and meadows and the twilight that starts to flow over the landscape.</p><p>”So… You think it’s a human?”</p><p>”Alan...” Valeri puts his hand on the medic’s arm, reassuring yet firm.</p><p>”This is the question we can not afford to ask, ever. You see, comrade… This very question has driven us to this war, and to every war before this one. The moment we decide humanity is a scale, a merit to earn or a test to pass or fail, we give up our own.”</p><p> </p><p>A cold, sinking feeling takes over Valeri as they start approaching the stronghold the Americans have converted into their base for the time being.</p><p>This should be a place for history, or a place for art. A place for hidden treasures, secret letters, knights and adventures.</p><p>Harsh artificial lights tear through the darkened yard like a wound and guards eye the parking vehicle cautiously.</p><p>Valeri is allowed here… and yet the feeling of dread builds up until he has to feel his revolvers through his coat.</p><p>Alan is unloading his purchases out of the vehicle, seeming tired and calm, but Valeri’s nerve ends are tingling with danger.</p><p>”Alan”, Valeri says loudly, maneuvering himself out and onto his feet.</p><p>”I’ll go greet our German guest before calling it a night. Would you like a glass of something after that, comrade?”</p><p>He straightens himself up as much as he can, grabbing his cane firmly.</p><p>”I think I’ll just crash in my bunk, sir. I’m really tired.”</p><p>”Good night, comrade. I’ll see you at breakfast time then.”</p><p>Valeri doubts that. Something cold runs along his spine. He might be heading straight into a trap, but what else could he do?</p><p>He does not run, does not climb, does not drive these American vehicles. His own men are a forty-minute drive away. He <em>has to</em> see Ritter.</p><p>The cold hallways bow down over him and stretch to eternity. The walk to Ritter’s cell has never been this long.</p><p>”Where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>Valeri freezes on his tracks. An American soldier peers at him from a half-open door. There are cards on the table, set up for a game of solitaire.</p><p>The young man looks bored and disoriented. Maybe he’s been drinking, napping, or both.</p><p>”I’ll go say hi to our German friend, comrade. I hope that’s okay.”</p><p>”Oh, it’s you. Go on then.” The man slides back into his chair, yawning.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The keys are not real.</p><p>They can not be.</p><p>Still, the pilot forces himself up and leans on the wall for support.</p><p>They sound real.</p><p>Perhaps the punishment is over?</p><p>Perhaps the Professor has come for him?</p><p>He takes a swaying step towards the door.</p><p>No, not the Professor. This is not the base.</p><p>The pilot’s head spins, an all-encompassing vertigo, like a plane spiralling down too fast.</p><p>He takes another step, quivering.</p><p>A gun shimmers on the floor but it’s too far. If he reaches for it, he’ll fall down and never get back up.</p><p>Blood rushes in his ears as he takes another step towards the door.</p><p> </p><p>The door is ajar. The stench of death fills the air like a thick liquid. Valeri takes one of his revolvers out and holds it as he limps towards Ritter’s cell. It's too quiet.</p><p>A sound, like the heel of a boot, drags across the floor. Too careless to be an ambush. Air is caught in Valeri’s throat as he pulls the door open with one hasty move.</p><p>”Oh Dove. Oh no.”</p><p>The pilot’s form stands eerily still, besides the tremors that run through him like wind rattling through a flag.</p><p>His hands are stretched out, white and red. Pale eyes, like cloudy glass, stare from pits of darkness, as if he’d been crying ink.</p><p>The pilot’s uniform is torn and drenched in crimson.</p><p>”Can you communicate?”</p><p>The pilot opens his mouth, but only a wet hiccup comes out. He nods furiously.</p><p> </p><p>The keys are real. Valeri is real. Or perhaps nothing is. The pilot stumbles forward, legs giving out.</p><p>”Can I touch you?”</p><p>He tries to answer, hands fumbling through the air for something to hold.</p><p>Yes, he wants to say yes. He wants to scream yes from the top of his lungs.</p><p>Valeri’s coat is in his hands and he falls against him. Valeri’s arm wraps around him. <em>Yes, yes, yes…</em></p><p>A surge of something despicable rises in the pilot’s throat. His body heaves and he can’t stop himself from being sick.</p><p> </p><p>”Just let it out… Don’t worry, comrade, everything will be fine. Just let it out, you'll feel better.”</p><p>Valeri holds the pilot up as he empties the contents of his stomach. What comes out is a corrupted rainbow: unimaginable colours that should have never been in there in the first place.</p><p>Valeri holds the man close, muttering encouraging nothings in Russian.</p><p> </p><p>The pilot clings to Valeri’s coat, doing his best to not be sick all over it and empty himself on the floor instead.</p><p>The coat feels so fine, the Yankees said it is expensive, Valeri will be mad if he ruins it…</p><p>But where is all the blood?</p><p>When nothing more comes out, the pilot is left gasping for air.</p><p>He runs his palm frantically across Valeri’s chest and back but everything is dry and soft.</p><p>”Shhh, no worries, comrade, I won’t hurt you. Everything will be fine.”</p><p>”No”, the pilot wheezes.</p><p>”No, no. Please.”</p><p>”Shhh, comrade… Things will be just fine. Do you… Do you want me to let go?”</p><p>When the pilot looks at Valeri’s face, he sees the man’s eyes are wide with terror. Wet pools of watercolour and rain.</p><p>”Don’t… Please.” The pilot buries his face against Valeri’s chest and he knows he’s ruining the coat now but he has to, he’ll die if Valeri lets go.</p><p>”I’m sorry! I would have done it, I’m so sorry… Forgive me, I would have done it, I swear, I’m so sorry!”</p><p> </p><p>The pilot unravels into a crying bundle in Valeri’s arms. He can just barely keep both of them upright, leaning hard onto his cane with one hand and holding the pilot tightly with another.</p><p>”Shh, Dove… Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve got you.”</p><p>A tooth is missing from the pilot’s bloody mouth. A long cut snakes up his arm, deep enough to have thoroughly soaked the pilot’s torn sleeve and side in slick, setting blood, as are his trousers.</p><p>His lips are purplish from blood loss and shock.</p><p>”You must feel really scared right now. That’s because you are going into shock. Can you stand up, comrade?”</p><p>The pilot nods, balancing himself delicately onto his feet.</p><p>”I’m going to give you my coat, and then we need to walk, Dove. We’ll take it slowly, just trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>”Is there a name you want me to use now, Dove?”</p><p>The voice comes through a cloud of fog.</p><p>The pilot feels like he’s small again, dazed half-unconscious with cognac and cough syrup.</p><p>The coat around him, warm like an embrace, smells of soap and old books.</p><p>”Ludger… Professor calls me Ludger”, he mutters. His burned tongue is heavy and alien in his mouth. It’s hard to speak.</p><p>”Oh, Dove… That’s a really good name. Thank you. Nice to meet you, Ludger.”</p><p>Valeri presses his forehead against the pilot’s own.</p><p>”How old are you, Ludger?” The voice trembles.</p><p>The pilot holds Valeri tighter, steadying his legs and his breath.</p><p>”I… Remember twenty-one sidereal cycles, and two revolutions… But I could already read when I started counting.”</p><p>A warm breath flutters across Ludger’s face.</p><p>”Twenty-one years, is that it? Plus the ones you don’t count?”</p><p>The pilot grunts approvingly, leaning his forehead against Valeri’s, noses almost brushing together.</p><p>”Thank you, Dove. Thank you. That’s… That's good.” A droplet falls onto Ludger’s nose. That’s not from him. That’s Valeri. Valeri is crying.</p><p>”Come on, now… Let’s go, nice and slow. Tell me right away if you feel like fainting, or if you need to catch your breath, okay?”</p><p>The pilot mutters an answer and takes a careful step.</p><p>Valeri holds him steadily, a revolver still in his hand. Maybe it’s been there the whole time. The thought is not scary, though. The man never aimed it at him.</p><p> </p><p>”Hands where I can see them!”</p><p>The tired guard ogles at Valeri with a startled, confused look in his eyes and slowly raises his hands from the game of solitaire.</p><p>The pilot has gone rigid in his embrace, shivering. Valeri turns his revolver towards the guard, who is blinking and confusion and shock.</p><p>”Your comrades have made the worst possible mistake. Unless you want to participate in it, get up slowly.”</p><p>The soldier complies, bewildered. The pilot is trembling. The American’s presence must be upsetting him.</p><p>”What the hell is up, sir?”</p><p>”Medical emergency. Bring the British medic to my quarters. Now!”</p><p>The American stares at him for a split second before sprinting out.</p><p>”You never pulled a gun on me”, the pilot breathes, eyes wide, grasping Valeri’s shirt with bloody hands.</p><p>”Shh, comrade… Of course not. Come on, let’s get you away from here.”</p><p> </p><p>The hallway is a steep uphill climb.</p><p>Ludger's boots are slipping and his legs are heavy as lead.</p><p>Even his eyes would fall shut, if Valeri didn't keep looking at him and smiling softly.</p><p>His eyes are wet, though, and there is a red halo around them. Like a watercolour splash, or like a burn from looking into something irradiating for too long.</p><p>Laurie is right: Valeri is pretty. And now...</p><p>Ludger lets out a wet sob. He's leaking blood and filthy, disgusting things onto him.</p><p>He's a boneless, limp mess Valeri has to drag like a corpse.</p><p>He wishes he was a corpse, so Valeri wouldn't have to see him and touch him and ruin the soft, expensive coat.</p><p>”I’m… I’m sorry I’m ruining your coat. I’m so filthy”, the pilot mutters. All the mess dripping from him must be seeping into the fabric.</p><p>”I don’t think this can be washed off”, he sobs.</p><p>It will be ruined and Valeri won’t want to use it ever again.</p><p>”Shhh, Dove… I’ll run you a bath and wash you really good. You’ll be nice and clean, just keep going for a little bit longer.”</p><p> </p><p>The pilot's eyes are getting clouded and glossy.</p><p>His pupils are tracking the air, before focusing back into Valeri's, and then to the air again. It's a medical miracle he's up and walking in the first place: his clothes alone indicate severe blood loss.</p><p>"Hey, Ludger, Dove... Do you hear me?" Valeri whispers softly. The pilot's purplish lips move and he nods slowly.</p><p>"Good, that's really good. Just a little more now, Dove."</p><p>The pilot is so close Valeri feels his rapid, gasped breaths against his own mouth.</p><p>"<em>The Russian? We shot him. Got tired of his bullshit</em>", the pilot whispers, eyes going wide. Valeri freezes momentarily.</p><p>"Dove, I'm right here. I'm alive and right here. I got you", he responds softly, but the pilot is very far now. A transmission, or a recording.</p><p>Valeri leans their foreheads together. Ludger is shivering, skin sticky and cold with sweat.</p><p>"All good, Dove. I'm right here."</p><p>The pilot looks him straight in the eye but his gaze is confused, like he's staring at a two-sided glass.</p><p>"<em>He squealed when he tried to crawl away. Think you’re going to squeal too, Pissfaggot?</em>"</p><p>"Oh, Ludger..." Valeri stops dragging them forward for a moment. The pilot is crying, the dark stain under his eyes spreading down like spilled ink.</p><p>"That's not true, Dove. I was away, no-one could have hurt me. I was away but I'm back now. I'm sorry it took so long."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Away.</em>
</p><p>Valeri was away and now he's back. Just like Ludger was.</p><p>Ludger went to the not-place and came back because Laurie was crying.</p><p>"Did you hear me crying too?" He whispers, struggling to maintain eye contact.</p><p>The veil of space-time is rattling in the wind.</p><p>He sees Valeri, shimmering like sunrise through a thick cloth, but he sees the Yankees too, and the cell, and even the laboratory back at base.</p><p>"No, no... I was away, Dove, I wasn't here. Do you... do you think I set you up for this? Oh God, I... Do you think I was listening when they hurt you?"</p><p>Ludger clings to the man's shirt, trying to pull himself even tighter into Valeri's soap and dawn embrace.</p><p>"I should have never threatened you with anything like that... I'm so sorry, that was a terrible thing to do."</p><p>Ludger blinks. He remembers the promises: drink and medicine and Pervitin... He doesn't remember a threat. And he remembers screaming at the Yankees, for what they did to Valeri.</p><p>"<em>Heard you liked piss, Nazi dog. Like this too?</em>"</p><p>The sound comes from his mouth, but he's not speaking, merely lip-reading.</p><p>Valeri has to know. Maybe he remembers wrong. Maybe he's mistaken.</p><p>"Oh Dove, don't..." Valeri hesitates, voice trembling.</p><p>Ludger shakes his head. Valeri has to know.</p><p>"<em>You think we’ll just kill you? Guess again, Pissfaggot</em>"</p><p>"Shh, Dove... you don't have to."</p><p>He looks scared. Valeri looks scared. That is not right.</p><p>Ludger reaches his hand up, trying to wipe a tear off Valeri’s cheek.</p><p>He leaves a dark, bloody stain in its stead.</p><p>His eyes go wide, he wants to put his hand back and wipe that off too, but he can’t. That’s not what he meant.</p><p>”Oh, I’m sorry!” He gasps.</p><p>That is wrong.</p><p>That is so wrong, he’s not supposed to make Valeri filthy too.</p><p>”Oh no… I’m too dirty, they wrecked me, you shouldn’t touch me, I’m sorry! No-one wants to touch me. Please let go!”</p><p>Ludger goes limp in Valeri’s embrace. Valeri holds him tighter.</p><p>”Shh… No, no… That’s not true, Dove. I’m touching you right now. You are not wrecked, you are just as good and clean and whole as before.”</p><p>No. Valeri doesn’t understand.</p><p>Valeri keeps dragging him forward, muttering softly in Russian, and the dark hallways change into a clean, lit space.</p><p>It’s all wrong.</p><p>”<em>I’ll fuck you slow and sweet, until you scream, like the ladies do. And then, I’ll fuck you harder... You’re up for the ride of your life, bitch.</em>”</p><p>It’s a whine, a breathless plea. Ludger looks Valeri in the eye.</p><p>”<em>Are you guys seeing this?! He’s got the ass of a fucking dame. Hell, who’d have guessed the Nazi dog would hide this in his pants.</em>”</p><p>Valeri shakes his head and opens a door with his elbow. The scent of books and cleanliness radiates outward, and Ludger has to close his eyes and lean against the man’s chest.</p><p>It smells like the Professor’s office in here, but even better.</p><p>”You’re so strong, Dove. So brave. You helped me the whole way. Now just a little bit more. Let’s run you a bath and take a look at you, okay?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He’s falling.</p><p>Ludger is sliding down, his grip is giving out, he’ll fall on the floor and through it and into the darkness.</p><p>”No, no no”, he gasps, trying to get a hold of something.</p><p>”Dove, Ludger… Everything’s fine. You can let go. There’s a seat behind you. Let me sit you down, okay?”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes take a moment to focus but when they do, Valeri is standing right in front of him and giving him a reassuring nod.</p><p>”Okay”, he says back, sinking already, knees jerking. His body is heavy and hard to move, like wet clothes. When he finds the seat, he slumps down bonelessly.</p><p>”That’s good. That’s very good. Now… Would you let me help take some of your clothes off, so you can wash up and we can take a look at your wounds?”</p><p>The question sounds so weird Ludger lets out a wet little chuckle.</p><p>Who asks that? His clothes are drenched in blood, piss, and worse things. His abused hole is bleeding and there is a hole in his palm.</p><p>And even if he refused, he wouldn’t have the strength to stop Valeri.</p><p>”Why… why do you ask?”</p><p>”So you can say no if you want to. We could also wait for the medic… or something else, if you can tell me what would help.”</p><p>”Like… hosing me down on the table? Please, no, not that”, Ludger whimpers and grabs the Russian’s sleeve.</p><p>”The… the Yankee needs a medic. <em>You</em> help me. Please.”</p><p>Valeri studies his face.</p><p>His brow is furrowed by worry, like the Professor’s always is. But Valeri’s brow is light and sunny, like his hair, not sunken into an ocean-black shadow.</p><p>His hair reminds Ludger of dunes from high altitudes, of fields just before reaping.</p><p>”I’ll help. Just… remember to let me know right away if something hurts or if you want me to stop, okay? We’ll take it slow.”</p><p>The pilot blinks. This is more questions and agreements and options than he’s ever had to go through before a test or a procedure or a mission.</p><p>”Affirmative.”</p><p>”Good, good… First we need to get your boots off, Ludger. You sit right there and let me know right away if you get too dizzy or need me to stop, I’ll help you remove them.”</p><p>Valeri holsters the revolver and pulls a chair for himself. His legs are shaking and he sinks into the seat heavily, sighing.</p><p>The pilot’s eyes go wide.</p><p>”Do you need a medic too? Did they...”</p><p>”All good, Dove. Let’s see…” Valeri bends to grab the pilot’s boot carefully.</p><p>”I will pull this now, but if your ankle or anything else hurts, please tell me.”</p><p>”<em>Maybe we should have ruined that for him before he died, huh Ritter? Could have made you fuck him bloody</em>”, Ludger whispers, shaking his head.</p><p>”<em>Never? Not even if you knew what we were going to do if you didn’t?</em>”</p><p>Valeri takes his less damaged hand and holds it, while carefully pulling the pilot’s boot off with his other hand.</p><p>”Shh, Dove. You’re safe now. You’ll feel better soon. Just… save your energy and let me help, okay?”</p><p>”<em>Wouldn’t you have done that for your pretty, starry-eyed Russian? I think he’d chosen you, Ritter</em>", Ludger whispers, grasping Valeri’s hand.</p><p>Grasping so hard Valeri’s fingertips turn red. And then Valeri’s face does, and Ludger lets go, startled.</p><p>”Sorry!” He wails and pulls his chained hands away. Valeri takes his hand again and holds it very softly.</p><p>”Shh… Don’t be. Don’t be sorry, Dove. Just… You don’t need to report to me, okay? You can tell whatever you want to, ask whatever you want to, but you don’t have to report to me. I’m not your superior. Just… no ranks or titles right now, just your comrade.”</p><p>Ludger nods slowly. This must be the most bizarre set of orders he’s ever received, but he’s willing to play along if that's what it takes to be cared for.</p><p>He just wants to be held, like when he was a child and was still allowed to climb in the Professor’s lap.</p><p>Sometimes, when breathing was too difficult, the Professor held him over the night, kept him upright and rubbed his back and chest to keep the air moving.</p><p>Valeri is removing his boots so carefully, as if taking apart a complex machine. He has the hands of a scientist. After all the soldiers, this feels reassuring.</p><p>In a way, Valeri is helping him breathe too.</p><p> </p><p>There is a sound. A sharp knock. Ludger startles, but Valeri squeezes his hand gently.</p><p>”Alan?”</p><p>”Sir? What’s going on, can I...”</p><p>”Stop”, Valeri says firmly. The pilot is shivering, leaning away from the door.</p><p>”Alan, please do not come in. This is a very sensitive matter. I need your assistance, though. Could you get something for me right now?”</p><p>”Is everything okay, sir? The guard said...”</p><p>”Alan, I am going to need your medic’s bag, wound dressings, a laundry basket, bolt cutters and alcohol as pure as you can possibly get me. Could you do that right now?”</p><p>”I… sure, sir!” The medic hesitates but agrees, and rushes off.</p><p> </p><p>Valeri’s palm is on the pilot’s cheek, radiating warmth through the glove.</p><p>The pilot doesn’t remember it getting there. Doesn’t remember leaning so far on the side or why the man is holding him under his arm with the other hand.</p><p>But there he is, and he rests his cheek against the soft leather glove, sighing. The enemy medic is gone.</p><p>”Dove, you’re safe. You’re safe here. Stay with me, okay?”</p><p>”Okay”, the pilot wheezes.</p><p>He wants to stay right here. Nestled against the glove that smells like old books and linen oil. Pain is somewhere very far. He is numb and sleepy and Valeri is holding his face gently.</p><p>”Please don’t fall asleep, Ludger. Talk to me, okay?”</p><p>”Okay”, the pilot mutters.</p><p>He would very much like to sleep, though. Going away like this would feel so good.</p><p>Being held, carried into the darkness, like a sick child being carried to bed.</p><p>”Will you hold me when you’re done, comrade?”</p><p>”Oh… Sure, Dove, if that makes you feel better”, Valeri says softly. He sounds surprised.</p><p>”We… We should get your clothes to the laundry, if that is okay, Dove.”</p><p>”I… think they are ruined.” The pilot lifts his gaze slowly.</p><p>Valeri is looking right back with something resembling a reassuring smile.</p><p>”That can be seen after a good wash. You need a bath too, comrade. Would you let me take these off so you can get nice and clean?”</p><p>Of course. Valeri doesn’t want to touch him if he’s filthy.</p><p>Ludger nods.</p><p>”We’ll take your jacket and shirt off once we have the cuffs removed. I’ll help you with the trousers first, if that’s okay?”</p><p>The pilot recoils, shaking his head. His trousers are disgusting. He doesn’t want Valeri touching the mess the Yankees left.</p><p>”Shhh… It’s okay, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”</p><p>”You’d get dirty too”, Ludger says, tears welling up in his eyes again.</p><p>”I’m so filthy. Please help me.”</p><p>He can’t stop himself from gripping Valeri’s hand with his stabbed hand. Suddenly Valeri’s eyes are wet and he holds the hand back, smiling through tears and shaking his head.</p><p>”Shh, Dove… There’s no issue. Do you know accidents that can be sorted with mere soap and hot water don’t count at all?”</p><p>”They don’t?” The pilot blinks, tightly holding on to Valeri’s hand.</p><p>”Of course not, it is a basic lab principle. Come on, comrade, let’s get your clothes to the laundry.”</p><p>”Okay.” Ludger nods, leaning into Valeri’s touch as the man lowers his hand softly onto his lap.</p><p>The Professor never told him that. Maybe it's a Russian laboratory conduct.</p><p>”So… What do you do on your spare time, Ludger?” Valeri’s hands are very careful and steady as he opens the pilot’s trousers and starts wriggling them down.</p><p>”Huh?” Ludger’s eyes flutter closed.</p><p>The touch along his thighs is firm and gentle, a skilled mechanic's tending an engine.</p><p>”Do you hunt? Play instruments? Shoot at a range? Sports?”</p><p>Valeri’s tone is friendly but the topics sound distant, black and white pictures in an encyclopaedia.</p><p>”I… I read a lot”, the pilot sighs, sinking against the back of the chair. Why can’t he just be a plane? Valeri could simply take him apart and replace all the broken parts and put him back together, if he was a plane.</p><p>”You do? That’s… that’s really nice, Ludger. I like reading too. What do you read?”</p><p>Valeri’s careful hands graze around his legs and the dirty, wrecked trousers are going away. The pilot nods and tries to smile, head lulling back.</p><p>”…books.”</p><p>”Do you like classics? Non-fiction? Adventure books? Biographies?”</p><p>Valeri’s hands brush Ludger’s ankles softly.</p><p>”Good job, you’re doing great. These are off now. I’m taking your socks off next, okay?”</p><p>The pilot hums approvingly.</p><p>”Books… that no-one touches anymore. Books that… books that want to be studied.” He lifts his head back up to look at Valeri.</p><p>”There is so much in books… so much no-one has ever cared to learn.”</p><p>Valeri’s gaze lights up, he smiles and nods and his wavy hair, too long for military standards, flutters softly.</p><p>”Those sound like good books. Tell me more about them, Ludger.”</p><p>”They can speak… But many people don’t want to stop and listen.”</p><p>His socks come off very carefully, Valeri just barely touching his feet at all. He stops to take a look at Ludger’s ankle, however. It's bruised purple, but the pain is shallow and insignificant.</p><p>”The medic will bring bolt cutters soon, so we’ll get you out of the cuffs. Could I take a look at your teeth while we wait, comrade? I’ll just look, and see if we could make it less painful for you.”</p><p>Teeth?</p><p>Ludger runs his tongue along his teeth and finds a gap. It doesn’t feel much like anything.</p><p>Nothing does. As if there was a thick glass wall between him and the world.</p><p>Pain sparks at the periphery of his nerves but doesn’t find a way to the center.</p><p>”We could at least clean that up a bit. Would that be okay, Dove? I’ll give you a sip of alcohol, you can rinse your mouth with it and spit it out afterwards.”</p><p>”Why? Can't I swallow it instead?” The pilot licks his bloody lips.</p><p>The Professor used to give him cognac, to help him sleep. To lessen the strain on his heart. To dull out the pain. He could use some now. A glass of cognac and a place to lie down…</p><p>”Would you like a clean sip after the rinse, to clear your throat?”</p><p>The pilot nods furiously.</p><p>His throat feels disgusting and raw, still sensing the Yankees invading his body.</p><p>Valeri has taken his pocket flask out and pours a little splash of vodka into a tea cup.</p><p>”Sorry, comrade… I drank my morning tea from this, I hope you don’t mind.”</p><p>Ludger does not mind. Valeri’s morning tea must be something really nice, hot like sun rays on an airplane wing.</p><p>When the cup is lifted to his lips and the liquid trickles into his mouth, there is a lingering taste of honey that still comes through the coppery sting of blood. Floral and warm. Like mead of ancient heroes.</p><p>He rinses his mouth, the vodka burning against the damaged tissues as a cleansing flame.</p><p>He swallows. The honey fire flushes into his belly.</p><p>”Dove, you were supposed to spit that one out.”</p><p>”I’m sorry!” The pilot’s eyes widen.</p><p>”Sorry, comrade! I didn’t mean to… but there was honey. Sorry!”</p><p>”Shh, Dove. Shh... That’s all right.”</p><p>Valeri’s fingers brush against his cheek, tracing the edge of his blackened cheekbone softly.</p><p>”I’m sure it worked just fine. Would you let me take a look of your teeth now?”</p><p> </p><p>Ludger nods and opens his mouth carefully.</p><p>He is shivering, strength bleeding out of him way too fast. Valeri studies his bloodied lips carefully.</p><p>The pilot wants to stop time and stay right here...</p><p>"I'm going to need a bit more light here, comrade. I'm going to turn my flashlight on, okay? You can close your eyes if the light hurts."</p><p>Ludger lets out a little whimper, closing his eyes.</p><p>The light shines through his shut eyelids like an eclipse. A soft red halo, much like the shading around Valeri's eyes.</p><p>Valeri is leaning closer, his breath ghosting against Ludger's lips, a phantom of a touch.</p><p>There is a lingering scent of something sweet. Something reminiscent of the cakes the scientists bring to the lab for his anniversary, but softer.</p><p>He inhales deeply, picturing the taste.</p><p>"Well, this is interesting", Valeri mutters, and his gloved finger brushes against the spot of the missing tooth.</p><p>"How old are you again, Dove? 20-something? Is there any chance you'd remember losing your baby teeth?"</p><p>The pilot murmurs approvingly. He is so tired, he could go to sleep here and never wake up, but Valeri repeats the question.</p><p>"... many times, comrade. By themselves, then again, then in training, colliding against the dashboard, then..."</p><p>The flashlight clicks and Ludger opens his eyes to observe Valeri, just centimetres away from his face.</p><p>Valeri's teeth are white and smooth, biting an indent into his rosy lip.</p><p>Valeri's fingertips follow the pilot's jaw. Ludger feels dizzy.</p><p>"That is... incredibly rare, Dove... I think you had a new tooth growing under the one you lost. Congratulations."</p><p>Ludger looks him carefully into the eye, and sees that they are not solid blue. They are pale nebulae of stars the human eye can barely tell apart.</p><p>Valeri smiles - and retreats into his seat.</p><p>"We should take a look at your hands, Ludger. Can I?"</p><p>Ludger stares at him, feeling very lost.</p><p>The pain inside him is stirring, waking from the numbness. He whines, fumbling his cuffed hands into Valeri's. Yes.</p><p>"Please... it hurts."</p><p>"Do you want something for the pain, Dove?"</p><p>Valeri's hands search the surface of his palms through the gloves, applying barely any pressure. Like mapping an ancient artefact.</p><p>"No", Ludger whimpers, though the pain splashes inside him, churning sea preparing for a storm.</p><p>"Please no, I hate being sedated. It doesn't... it doesn't work right."</p><p>"Okay, then... We will start without, and you can tell me at any point, if you change your mind."</p><p>Ludger can't help but look at the crazy Russian and smile weakly. Not only does he offer options, he offers several contradicting ones.</p><p>"Got any Pervitin for me, comrade? I will lie down and die happy if you give me some and hold me. Please."</p><p>Valeri's smile goes away.</p><p>He looks serious in the way the scientists do when their crucial experiment doesn't work.</p><p>Ludger has almost forgotten <em>he is</em> Valeri's crucial experiment.</p><p>"Sorry", he breathes fast, fists clenching so hard his stabbed palm starts leaking crimson down his glove and onto his bruised wrists.</p><p>"Sorry, comrade, please forgive me... please don't leave me alone."</p><p>"Ludger, Dove... of course I won't leave you. We'll treat your wounds and wash you up and then you can rest in a nice, warm bed and get better. No dying, okay?"</p><p>"Okay", the pilot whispers.</p><p>The bayonet grazes against something inside him, something that makes his breath laboured and short.</p><p>Tears gather in the corners of his eyes like rain against the cockpit glass.</p><p>Valeri is pressing the wound on his palm, as if stopping that little stream of red would help.</p><p>The wound is getting more sensitive again, stinging and burning following the numbness.</p><p>Valeri's fingertips study the shape of the wound through the glove, feel the hand from both sides. Ludger gasps, pressing his palm against the touch, and whimpers when Valeri's fingertip slips into the cut.</p><p>The sudden jolt of pain sends a burst of shooting stars into his vision. They flicker and shine.</p><p>Electric sparks.</p><p>Water droplets mid-air during the perfect Pervitin high.</p><p>Speckles of Valhalla ricocheting from the side of a falling plane.</p><p>Ludger emits a breathless moan.</p><p>Valeri’s gloved finger is pressed against a raw nerve in his palm and the current shoots up his arm.</p><p>It’s not even a feeling, it is a sound, a nameless colour.</p><p> </p><p>”Ludger? Ludger, please stay like you are now and take a few good, deep breaths, okay?”</p><p>The pilot nods slowly. He’s slumped back, head hanging on the side and vision blurry from looking directly into the sun.</p><p>Valeri’s palm is caressing his chest and the other is still holding his hands.</p><p>”You got a little dizzy there, comrade. Sorry I got your wound like that, it must be really sore. I think we should just wash it well and then wrap it up nicely, the fine-tuning can come later, when we can get you something for the pain you approve of.”</p><p>Ludger chuckles softly, lifting his head.</p><p>”Remember when I told you about reaching the exosphere, comrade Valeri? That felt just like this.”</p><p> </p><p>When the door is knocked on again, Ludger doesn’t startle.</p><p>Valeri is holding his still gloved hands, petting them lightly as he tells him over and over again that Alan will not hurt him.</p><p>The medic is Alan.</p><p>Alan is, in fact, not a Yankee.</p><p>Alan is British.</p><p>The British are not Yankees.</p><p>”Do you require assistance, sir?” The medic looks at Valeri, sharp and focused.</p><p>Valeri turns back to the pilot, expression kind and questioning.</p><p>”Would you let Alan help you, Ludger? Alan is a medic, he could make you feel better.”</p><p>Ludger shakes his head.</p><p>Cold sweat is starting to bead on his skin. Tremors of pain are radiating from the bayonet. He squeezes Valeri’s hand.</p><p>”I don’t need a medic. Just… Just you, comrade. But the Yankee needs help.”</p><p>”Your call, Dove. No one touches you without your permission. We can call Alan back if you change your mind.”</p><p>”No, he <em>has</em> to go see the Yankee!” The pilot insists, eyes watering.</p><p>”He's hurt, he was crying. Please...”</p><p>Valeri and the medic are staring at him, puzzled.</p><p>Ludger doesn’t know the right words. He grasps Valeri’s sleeve and whispers:</p><p>”<em>You sound perfect too, you know that? Keeping your witty mouth shut and accepting your place. This is all you’ll ever be good for, Laurie. You’re nothing.</em>”</p><p>”Dear God”, the medic breathes. And then:</p><p>”I’ll be on my way. Please call me if you need me, sir. I’ll do my best.”</p><p>He leaves the room, but not as a nervous wreck now. His posture is that of a man who is determined to go to battle and win.</p><p>Valeri turns back to Ludger.</p><p>”Let’s get you out of these cuffs and into a bath, Dove. Things can only get better from here.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Sanguine Sea of Tranquillity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Sanguine Sea of Tranquillity</h1><p> </p><p>The metal breaks with a loud crack, as a sole rumble of thunder.</p><p>The pilot looks at his wrist, hesitant to believe this is real. Valeri pries the cut cuff open. His nimble fingers slide over the purple indent in the swollen wrist, and Ludger gasps.</p><p>Blood is rushing into his hand, the broken wrist blazing hot like molten metal.</p><p>"Your wrist seems damaged, comrade. Do you remember how that happened? Broken, or dislocated?"</p><p>"Definitely broken", the pilot whimpers, biting into his lip as the man moves to free his other wrist with bolt cutters.</p><p>"Okay. In that case, we'll leave it be until you are well washed up, then bandage it neatly. Is that okay to you, Dove?"</p><p>"Okay", Ludger says quietly. Anything is okay with Valeri. Valeri has the hands of a scientist and he smells of cleanliness and peace.</p><p>"Don't be startled. I'll cut this one now, it will make a big sound, okay?."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>Valeri takes off the broken cuffs and fondles the other wrist too. The touch is like an electric spark, making Ludger's flesh tingle. Life he didn't think he had left is returning into his hands.</p><p>"So good, Dove. Great work, you're so brave."</p><p>Valeri is smiling again, beaming and warm, and the pilot can't help but smile too.</p><p>This is the first time he's died so nicely, resting in a warm room, someone holding his hand. The bed looks soft and clean. Thick blankets, like clouds.</p><p>"Can I lie down soon, comrade? I'm afraid I can't hold on much longer. Sorry."</p><p>"Oh, Dove... Don't worry, I can help you around. Let's go run you a bath."</p><p>Valeri reaches to flip a small metal lever in the pilot’s seat, then gets up slowly.</p><p>”You sit right there and let me do this part for a change”, he says, chuckling softly. Then he moves the seat.</p><p>The seat moves.</p><p>It’s a wheelchair, for cripples.</p><p>Ludger wails, gripping the arm rests.</p><p>”<em>No!</em> Please, no! I can move, I’m not a cripple! No, please!”</p><p>He tries to get up but his limbs are heavy and uncoordinated, and instead of standing he starts to slump down.</p><p>Valeri grabs him under the shoulders, pulls him back, then simply holds him against the wheelchair’s back with his warm body above it.</p><p>”Please, my legs work… I’m not useless, please...”</p><p>Ludger starts to cry and buries his face into his bloody hands.</p><p>”Shh, Dove… Shh, of course not. You’re not useless, no one is.”</p><p>Valeri’s hand cups Ludger’s bruised cheek and caresses it softly.</p><p>”It’s just a tool, Dove. Just a tool for me to help you, to save your strength. Your legs work, you walked here with me, remember?”</p><p>”Please, comrade… I’m not a cripple, please don’t put me away.”</p><p>”Oh, Dove… I’m not putting you away. We’ll give you a nice, warm bath and I’ll be right here by your side all the time, okay? It's just very hard for me to carry you. The wheelchair is not for you, it’s for me. Please let me help.”</p><p>”O-okay.” Ludger swallows a wet sniffle and hugs the man’s arm tighter against his body.</p><p>He can’t be a cripple, though. He can feel his bare feet turning cold, brushing against the floor. A bruise is blooming on his crushed ankle. The spot between his legs is a wet, gushing, searing hot wound.</p><p>”I swear I’m not a cripple, comrade”, he cries, as Valeri starts pushing him slowly towards a half-open door.</p><p>”Shh, Dove. None of that matters”, Valeri says very softly, and leans to wipe tears from the pilot’s cheeks.</p><p>”You are alive, you are hurt, and you need care.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There is plenty of space in the bathroom, and a spare chair by the side of the bathtub.</p><p>Valeri pushes the wheelchair to face the spare chair, and then moves himself carefully towards the chair, holding on to the wheelchair’s armrest on his way.</p><p>Valeri’s legs are shaking and when he meets the edge of the chair, he almost collapses down.</p><p>Ludger can’t stop the sobs that are trembling in his chest. He’s speaking, repeating words between muffled cries, but doesn’t remember what they mean. Valeri’s hand lands on his arm, reassuring and warm.</p><p>”It’s okay, Dove… You can let it all out, you’re safe now. Would you let me help you with the jacket and shirt so we can bathe you?”</p><p>Ludger blinks slowly.</p><p>Valeri opens a faucet and water starts pouring into the tub, steaming hot.</p><p>"Okay", Ludger hiccups.</p><p>The water is roaring against the metal, like an engine or like the blood rushing through his heart.</p><p>Microscopic droplets hover mid-air, and mist starts rising from the spot where the stream hits the bottom of the tub.</p><p>He reaches out his gloved fingers, stirring under the flow of water.</p><p>"I'm going to need your hand, okay? You'll get to wash soon, let's just put your clothes to laundry first."</p><p>The pilot nods, and extends his arm towards Valeri.</p><p>"Thank you for trusting me", the man says softly, and brushes his coat away from the pilot's shoulders before taking his hand.</p><p>"Let's open these first, okay?"</p><p>Valeri guides the pilot's fingertips to the buttons of his shirt and although his hands are aching and half-numb, Ludger feels like he's participating in some small way.</p><p>Valeri's nimble fingers undo the buttons swiftly, guiding Ludger's hand along them as he does.</p><p>"Excellent work, Dove. So good. Now we should get these off. Together, okay?"</p><p>Soft vapor is rising from the bath tub, mist forming above a lake in the early morning.</p><p> </p><p>There is a small scar on Valeri's right cheek Ludger hasn't noticed before.</p><p>It is small, the size of a child's fingertip, white and shaped like a petal. Ludger lifts his head and reaches out his hand to touch it.</p><p>"Does that... does that hurt, comrade?"</p><p>Valeri looks confused for a while, then smiles.</p><p>"The scar? Well... yes, it did when it happened. I was just learning to support my body again, tripped and hit a night stand. But it's not a wound anymore, just a memory. A log of the past, if you will."</p><p>There is a wet film over the pilot's eyes. He wraps an arm around his shivering body.</p><p>"My scars still hurt", he wails.</p><p>The ache inside him is spreading, getting worse and worse. He wants to sink into the hot water already.</p><p>"Oh Dove... Let's get you out of your gear and into the warm bath, okay? After that we can see if..."</p><p>"Please don't sedate me", Ludger sobs.</p><p>Valeri's hand is on his cheek and in his dirty hair and on his ear and it's combing his skin softly, like a fine measuring instrument.</p><p>"What are you doing, comrade? Are you... measuring my skull?"</p><p>Valeri's eyes go wide, his cheeks turn pink, and he pulls his hand away.</p><p>"No. I just... sorry. I was trying to comfort you. I'm sorry, I didn't ask."</p><p><em>Comfort</em>. Ludger tilts his head, eyes fluttering rapidly open and closed. To comfort is to relieve.</p><p>"It was.. it was good. Sorry."</p><p>There is a faint expression on Valeri's lips, an almost-smile. He looks relieved too.</p><p>”Please help me with the clothes, okay?” Ludger says quietly.</p><p> </p><p>The jacket slides off, and the pilot shivers in the cold air against his damp skin. Valeri’s hands, cupped to guide Ludger’s shaking hands, return to the front of his opened shirt.</p><p>”Now this, okay? You will get in the bath very soon now, Dove.”</p><p>”Please don’t look”, the pilot breathes when they start peeling the shirt off. Valeri’s brow furrows.</p><p>”I’m here just to help, I won’t do anything you don’t want to. I won’t even say anything if...”</p><p>”<em>An utter failure</em>”, Ludger whines, and looks into Valeri’s eyes.</p><p>”You can look... but please don’t leave.”</p><p>The fabric is pulled away and the clammy, feverish skin underneath is exposed.</p><p>Air flashes against the bare skin, unfamiliar. The scars sting and burn. How long has it been since he last was out of his uniform?</p><p>Valeri looks, and looks, and looks some more.</p><p>But he doesn’t say <em>”defective”</em>, he doesn’t say <em>”turn around and face the wall”</em>, he just looks… and slowly reaches his hand out to touch the dark boot print on the pilot’s body.</p><p>”Oh Dove… I am so sorry. I’m sorry they hurt you and that I couldn’t stop it.” And then he takes the pilot’s hands again and looks at him with his wet nebula eyes.</p><p>”Let’s take your gloves off and get you in the bath, okay? You must be freezing.”</p><p>Ludger nods, unable to speak. Soon he has to turn and climb over the bathtub and Valeri will stare at his back. A horrible, cold feeling creeps over him.</p><p>Valeri knows nothing about that, and keeps gently pulling his bloody gloves off, almost as some kind of priceless specimen to be preserved and not as a failed test result.</p><p>Ludger opens his mouth and closes it again.</p><p>”So good. Just a little bit more. This might sting, but I need to get the glove off the wound, okay?”</p><p>It doesn’t hurt, though. The pilot’s hands have gotten numb, and his body is heavy and cold.</p><p>”I wish… I wish you had just held me.”</p><p>”Oh, Dove… I will, anything to make you feel better. Let’s just wash you first, okay? Careful now, let’s get you into the bath.”</p><p>Valeri reaches his arm out to offer support, and the pilot takes it hesitantly.</p><p>He lifts his legs over the edge of the tub and shudders.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and levers himself to sit on the edge, head spinning. His feet are touching the hot water but he feels cold.</p><p>He waits. He waits. He waits, and Valeri says nothing.</p><p>And then he does, and it is all wrong.</p><p>”Oh, you poor thing… Does this one still hurt?”</p><p>A feather-soft touch flutters across the scar spread over his back, and Ludger lets out a startled sob.</p><p>”It’s… I swear you can still use me for something, anything. Please don’t put me away.”</p><p>"You must have been so scared..." Valeri says very softly, and his fingers study the constellation of scars and the dented vertebrae.</p><p>"I'm sorry to have put you in the wheelchair, Dove... and sorry for scaring you earlier, I shouldn't have done that."</p><p>Ludger swallows hard and takes a deep breath.</p><p>"You... don't think they wrecked me?"</p><p>"No, of course not."</p><p>Valeri's hands are becoming more bold, feeling the edges of the off-shaped bones and the scarred skin, and the other scar he doesn't mention.</p><p>"This is not new, is it, Ludger ? It's calcified. Healed. You have piloted with this. You are alive. There is no way to call this 'wrecked'. It's just another scar."</p><p>"No, it's... I'm a failure. <em>Get up. </em>No.<em> Get up. </em>No.<em> Get up. Turn towards the wall. </em>No.<em> Face the wall. </em>No.<em> Turn towards the wall. Walk. </em>No.<em> Walk here. </em>No.<em> Walk faster. Look at the chart. </em>No.<em> Face the wall. </em>Please no!" The pilot is almost screaming, gripping the edge of the tub. Tears are streaming down his cheeks.</p><p>"And now they have ruined me again. The process can fix a broken spine when they try and try and try... those bastards wrecked me for good and now nobody will want me back because I am <em>useless</em>."</p><p>Valeri must be a very bad scientist, because he says no and grazes his hand very softly over the dented spine and says:</p><p>"You are perfect just the way you are, Ludger."</p><p>Maybe Ludger needs a bad scientist, then.</p><p>Because this theory is bad, maybe the worst he has ever heard, and he likes it.</p><p> </p><p>The pilot feels the hot water with his feet. It’s steaming but not scalding, and it swallows the pain in his bruised ankle like a cleansing flame.</p><p>He lowers himself down carefully, sighing. His bloody palm slips, and he jerks forward.</p><p>Before he can even register the upcoming impact, Valeri’s hands are under his shoulders and he’s waist-deep in the bath.</p><p>”Feeling dizzy? Take it slow, okay? Let’s see... Can you sit up, against the edge?”</p><p>Maybe he does feel dizzy. His vision is blurry and his body is slack and heavy and blissfully light. He is half-floating, water embracing his limp legs and grazing his back.</p><p>Gravity has weakened all of a sudden and everything is distant and hot. Ludger is in space, orbiting a foreign star.</p><p>”I’ll take that as a no. Okay, now, Dove… I’ll put your arm over the edge like this, okay? Can you stay upright?”</p><p><em>”There is… no ’up’ in space”</em>, the pilot mutters. His head is lead-heavy, sinking forward on its own volition.</p><p>The bloody tip of his nose touches the surface, but it’s not water, it’s a mirror, an event horizon, and he’s sinking through both ways.</p><p>Hands lift him up softly and position him to lean back against the cool metal edge of the tub.</p><p>”Okay, take it easy, we’ll do this another way then… Will you feel safe if I get in there to help you out, comrade? I will keep my clothes on, I don’t mind them getting wet. I’ll just make sure you don’t slip and inhale water, is that okay, Dove?”</p><p>”Sure... come fly with me, comrade... it’s so very warm up here”, Ludger mumbles.</p><p> </p><p>He’s in a blissful free fall through space and the solar flares caress him like water. It is too late, though. Too late to diverge from the trajectory.<br/>He will be spun around before launched into the cold void of space again, far away from the star.<br/>Fuel is still leaking out, blending into the surrounding , creating a peculiar effect. A red aurora, flickering before diluting away.<br/>”Hey, Ludger... You seem to be drifting a bit there. Let’s stay awake, okay? I’m taking my leg braces off now, it will be very hard for me to move you around if you pass out.”<br/>”Affirmative”, the pilot mutters.<br/>”Keep talking, ground control… it’s nice, having company.”<br/>”Of course, Dove. Just please, please stay awake. What would you like to talk about?"<br/>”Can’t I just… enjoy this, while it still lasts?”<br/>It’s like looking at the dusk, an all-encompassing stellar dusk where the sun does not set, the vast emptiness of space itself does, turning soft coppery red at the edges.<br/>”Oh, Dove… You must be very tired.”<br/>The pilot doesn’t answer. He’s weightless, floating through space. Only his eyelids are heavy.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m coming there now, don’t be alarmed. I have a shirt and underwear on. I’ve got soap and a wash cloth right here, so we can get you nice and clean.”<br/>Solar flares ripple. Something grazes Ludger’s leg, and he smiles weakly.<br/>”You came, comrade...”<br/>”That’s right, Ludger, I’m right here. I’ll help you wash your hands and arms first, okay? We don’t want those cuts to get infected.”<br/>A touch of cloth brushes against the pilot’s arm. It smells like soap. How does scent exist in vacuum?<br/>"You know what this reminds me of, Dove? Back when I was a child, my mother used to loop a linen belt under my arms and suspend it from the wall while I was bathing, so that I would not fall and drown. I used to imagine I was a diver, exploring uncharted sea floor."<br/>The pilot emits a sound, a muffled giggle.<br/>"The professor... the professor does that", he mutters, eyes closed. Solar flares flicker against his arm and burn up the grime into nothing.<br/>"He ties you up? Oh Dove, that's not..."<br/>The pilot shakes his head.<br/>"The professor... goes diving. There are wonderful things in there, comrade... the professor says there are dark, wonderful things out there. "<br/>"I'm sure of that, Ludger", Valeri says, and his voice is smiling again.<br/>”Oceans are still vastly unexplored. Uncharted deep space right under the bellies of our ships, that's what they are.. We can get so much closer to the sky than the bottom of the ocean. There could be real mermaids in there and we would not know a thing."<br/>"Are there...?" The pilot hiccups. Valeri swallows a soft laugh.<br/>"No, I don't think so. No documented cases of water spirits of any kind exist. But that would be really fascinating. For millennia, humans have claimed to have interacted with all sorts of supernatural beings. Spirits, ghosts, fairies and magical creatures of all sorts. Some have even believed such have lived among us as changelings. I used to be so very enchanted by fairy-tales and stories, you know."<br/>Ludger does not know, but he imagines.<br/>Little Valeri under a laboratory desk, flicking through pages.<br/>Little Valeri in his bunk the light has been turned off, lighting matchsticks in the dark to finish a page.<br/>Valeri’s little hand tracing each newborn star into the shadow of his ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>”But growing up, I learned the value of skepticism. Just because I wish something was real doesn’t make it real. We have to make the best from what there is. ”<br/>Valeri sounds melancholic. He tangles his washcloth hand into Ludger’s hand. An electric current runs up the pilot’s arm and he gasps.<br/>”I’m sorry, your wrist must be hurting. I’ll be as careful as I ever can, just a little bit more, okay?”<br/>Ludger nods, biting his lip. The hand is outreached into the burning surface of the star and the radiation glows through him and makes his flesh transparent and his bones glassy.<br/>His nerves have stopped translating sensations to pain and instead the roar of stellar fire registers as pure, deafening frequency in his ears.<br/>A tear, crystallized mid-flow, freezes onto his cheek.<br/>Valeri’s fingers untangle and space-time starts again. Ludger whimpers out loud.<br/>”It’s okay, it’s okay, Dove. I let go, we’re not touching that any more. Shh, it’s all right. You can rest it on the side, we’ll bandage your wrist really carefully after this, okay?”<br/>The pilot opens his eyes slowly and breathes again.<br/>”It’s… it’s okay, comrade. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>The bathtub has turned red. Valeri’s soft dress shirt is soaked rusty and his lean legs are half-submerged under the murky, bloody water.<br/>A twinge of guilt and agony flashes through the pilot’s body. His inside is leaking outside and Valeri has to sit in the dirty water and it’s all for nothing.<br/>He looks up and there is a glimmer of futile hope in the man’s eyes.<br/>”We have to clean the cut in your other arm now, okay? Just… Relax, and let’s chat some more, Ludger. Thank you, that you let me wash the other one, and that you opened your eyes. Things will only get better.”<br/>”Better”, the pilot sighs.<br/>But Valeri's gaze remains hopeful, so bright it tears the pilot's insides as much as the bayonet does.<br/>Ludger wants to see the smooth edges of his teeth and hear him talk about wonderful things again.<br/>"The Reich doesn't think magic belongs only to story books, comrade. There are documents, in languages no-one speaks, and artifacts..."<br/>Valeri smiles, but it is a bitter smile, a half-scowl.<br/>"The Reich believes all sorts of things, Ludger. That your nose shape could hold the keys to understanding your morality. That people should multiply with whoever's heritable characteristics match theirs. That people like me don't have a life worth living. My scientifically measured response is: damn their opinion."<br/>"But... I don't believe any of that."<br/>Ludger squints and observes the tip of his nose. There's a smear of blood on it.<br/>"What do you think the shape of my nose means?"<br/>Valeri looks at him, and the washcloth stops at his arm. There is a little sound, like a muffled chuckle.<br/>"Well... It doesn't have to 'mean' anything, it's just your nose. It's unique, and pretty, and evolution intended you to use it for sensing scents. But I guess you could also say that you inherited it from your parents, so it means you're related to them. Is it from your mother's or father's side, Dove?"<br/>”I… don’t know, really”, the pilot mutters.<br/>His body is sleepy and numb, ready to sink under the red surface. He barely feels the soapy cloth travelling against his cut arm.<br/>”I think… it’s kind of like the Professor’s.”</p><p> </p><p>Air hangs heavy, smelling of copper, lavender and death.<br/>Valeri’s shirt is turning crimson even above the surface, but he keeps washing carefully, a curious smile ghosting on his lips.<br/>The pilot is happy the man doesn’t know yet. He would not smile otherwise. He would go back to looking stern and taking notes when Ludger fades away.<br/>”They must be stupid, comrade… They must be stupid if they think that about your life.” Ludger lifts his gaze slowly and looks Valeri in the eye.<br/>”What about it, if you don’t go dancing or multiply? Not everyone does, right? You can still go almost anywhere with someone, speak and be spoken to, hold someone’s hand… Just a bunch of assholes would ever say that, comrade Valeri.”<br/>The pilot's vision is reddening. He sees Valeri through a haze of crimson, and closes his eyes to correct his vision.<br/>"That's... very progressive of you, Ludger. Would probably be better to not share such views back home." Valeri's voice is cracking.<br/>Is he offended? Did Ludger use wrong words?<br/>He peeks at the man through his pale lashes.<br/>World seems to be the right shade but Valeri is not. He is flushed scarlet, a spectrum of infrared flickering across his cheeks in the beat of his heart.<br/>Perhaps he’s angry.</p><p> </p><p>”Your… your arm does not seem too alarming, comrade. I’m sure good washing and neat bandages will allow it to heal. Now… let’s take a look at your palm, okay?”<br/>”Okay”, the pilot mutters. He wants to apologize, but Valeri doesn’t seem to be content with apologies.<br/>Maybe Valeri wants to punish him instead.<br/>The thought makes a shiver run along his spine. He sighs and extends his stabbed palm out, expectantly.<br/>Valeri’s fingertip runs along his skin around the wound. Sweeps around like a radar, sends signals flickering onto his dashboard.<br/>”You don’t probably feel in luck right now… But this is a very lucky wound, Ludger. It’s gone through very clean, went straight between the bones. I will touch it next, please stay still if you can, okay?”<br/>The pilot steadies his breathing and keeps his arm extended out.<br/>Valeri is very kind, punishing him right away and not leaving him alone. He might drown in the tub otherwise, before he has time to bleed out. It’s slower than he thought.<br/>”Thank you”, Ludger breathes.</p><p> </p><p>Valeri pours water on the wound from his cupped hand. It cascades down in half speed, almost hovering before it touches his raw nerves.<br/>It is an explosion, bursting sparks into his vision. The shock wave shudders his body, and the ache inside him doubles. The pilot gasps, louder than he intended.<br/>A hand reaches his cheek, fondles it softly.<br/>”It’s okay, just a quick wash, Dove. Please stay with me.”<br/>Valeri’s fingers, slick with soap and blood, reach into the wound. Ludger moans.<br/>His nerves are on fire. Blood rushes in his ears and his heart whirrs, overheating more with each spurt of depleting blood charging through it.<br/>He can’t stop himself from grabbing Valeri’s arm with his other hand and holding it in place.<br/>Water and blood is dripping down, frozen in place like a chandelier, a hundred crimson crystals glimmering.<br/>Valeri’s fingertip juts out obscenely through the wound, wet and glistening.<br/>Ludger’s sudden movement has pushed it all the way through, the feverish flesh of his palm impaling itself on the man’s delicate digits.<br/>”Shhh, Dove… Please let go, the pain will stop sooner.”<br/>”No”, the pilot wails.<br/>The sweet, sickle-sharp pain is cutting off the agony inside him. It’s sweeping over him, swallowing time and space.<br/>As long as he stays like this, there will be no death, no lab, no enemies. Just the breathtaking vertical climb that is breaching the atmosphere and diving into the void between stars.<br/>He is free.</p><p> </p><p>”Ludger, Dove… please breathe with me, okay?”<br/>Valeri shifts closer. The red tide rolls against the pilot’s skin, but it’s not skin any more, it’s a hundred million precise sensors wired to explode at contact.<br/>A hand travels onto his chest, starts rubbing a gentle yet firm circle onto his sternum.<br/>”I know you can do it. Slow and steady, okay? Breathe together with me.”<br/>Ludger can’t breathe. There is no air. His heart is overheating. His chest would burst in flames but fire needs oxygen too.<br/>”Come on, Dove…” Valeri’s breath is flowing against his mouth and the pilot parts his lips. He wishes Valeri could breathe for him. Tears begin to stream down his cheek and he’s squeezing Valeri’s arm too hard.<br/>An electric fizz spreads on his skin, like electricity or carbon dioxide bubbles.<br/>His eyes search for Valeri’s eyes. The pain is blinding, pure white like snow or like a lightning.<br/>”You’re not dying. This is your body reacting to pain and fear, this will pass and you will be okay, Dove.”<br/>Valeri is close, so close the tip of his nose is touching Ludger’s cheek, and his voice is soft and steady.<br/>”Just like that… now again, Dove. Slooow and steady...”<br/>The hand on the pilot’s sternum rotates, winding up his lungs and his flickering heart.<br/>Air fills his chest like a fluttering flame. Ludger let’s go of Valeri’s arm and sinks back down, panting.<br/>His palm, his entire arm perhaps, is burning up with life he did not have left.<br/>”Don’t stop, comrade...”</p><p> </p><p>"Shh, everything okay. I will take my hand off the wound now, we'll bandage your hand, and then I can help you wash up, okay?"</p><p>"...okay"</p><p>The pilot's skin prickles like after a dip in ice water. His nerves are buzzing, bloodstream rushed into raging rapids. The fresh, pure pain has wiped his senses clean. Extracting the finger makes him sigh still, and he lets go of Valeri's arm reluctantly. It's a tether, a rope attaching him to the world of living, and letting go sends him back to a weightless float.</p><p>Ludger barely feels his hand being wrapped into a cotton cocoon. It's far away, a desolate signal. He feels Valeri, though. Valeri's wet clothes floating underwater and Valeri's hands travelling on his skin.</p><p>”Your hair and face need a wash, Dove. Would you let me?"</p><p>"Yes", Ludger breathes.</p><p>Yes please. A wash. Boiling water and acid. Like sterilizing lab equipment. Please peel my skin clean and cauterize my nerves.</p><p>"Thank you, Ludger", Valeri whispers. The scent of soap is intense, intoxicating. It spreads into the air as a curtain, a thick protective veil. Valeri's hands land onto the pilot's cheeks. A scientist's hands. But there are no rubber gloves, no harsh cloth, no hose. Valeri's fingers are warm and slick and drawing a hundred tiny circles into his skin at once. Ludger shudders.</p><p>"Sorry, Dove. Does this hurt?"</p><p>No? Maybe? His blood is rushing too loudly to tell. Yes? His skin burns, burns like vodka on its way down.</p><p>Ludger whines breathlessly. His cheeks feel blissfully sore against the washing motions, like muscles after hard training. He leans forward, sinking Valeri's fingertips deeper against the bruises. "Is this oil, Ludger? Did you inhale or swallow it?" <em>Oil?</em> The pilot doesn't remember oil. From the crash, maybe? Or from Valeri's agile hands? Does he repair machines? Could he repair...? Ludger shakes his head slowly. There is too much blood. Too much mess. Good for nothing.</p><p>"No? Good. That's very good. Let's see then..." Valeri's fingers are brushing around the pilot's eyes, so softly it's barely a touch. Ludger's eyes tear up. He's never been touched so carefully. Valeri wipes tears and soap away with the washcloth.</p><p>"Do you ever sleep, Ludger?" He asks.</p><p>Sleep? He used to, in the past. With pills and cognac, with fever dreams and night terrors and with the Professor keeping him breathing. Then came the bottles, and that was better. A void, taking him to the quiet, peaceful dark. Now there is Pervitin for that. Pervitin and waking up anew to die.</p><p>"No, I don't sleep... but sometimes I dream."</p><p>There is a pause. Then, gently, Valeri's hand caresses his dirty hair.</p><p>"Well... today you will. The bed is very comfortable, and I'll keep watch so you can rest, okay?"</p><p>The blood will ruin Valeri's sweet-smelling linens and soak the cloudy blankets. But if Ludger tells, he'll die in the tub and the water will go cold and Valeri will stop washing him and raking his gentle fingers through Ludger's hair.</p><p>"I used to sleep with two, three, sometimes four blankets on me as a child", Valeri says, chuckling, as he drips water onto Ludger's head.</p><p>"I imagined I was at the beach, half-buried in the sand, and that I could get up and go swimming at any time... Did you enjoy going to the beach, Dove?"</p><p>"I don't know", Ludger mutters.</p><p>"I don't remember."</p><p>Valeri's fingers are combing through his hair, soft and soapy, and massaging his scalp in a way that makes shivers run down his spine. It's an electric feeling, an itch he never knew he had finally being scratched, and he emits a quiet, pleased hum. Painkillers never worked properly, only drinking ever quite dulled the pain, but now this does too. Perhaps this is a new procedure. Perhaps Valeri is not the worst scientist.</p><p>"You don't? Then... then it could be something to look forward to, don't you think? When this war ends, you should do it. Choose a nice summer day, go to the beach, buy yourself an ice cream, take a walk. Look at the girls, avoid feeding the seagulls..."</p><p>"A seagull flew in my engine once. It was a mess", the pilot says, and though it is not a joke or a prank, Valeri starts laughing.</p><p>"It was not a joke. The seagull turned into gore sludge", Ludger tells him. Perhaps Valeri has never seen what an engine does to birds. Valeri stops laughing and fondles his hair.</p><p>"Sorry, Ludger. I didn't think it was a joke. My attempt to cheer you up just backfired so badly it was funny." There is still a weary little smile on his lips.</p><p>"Maybe something else then? What would you like to do?"</p><p>The pilot thinks. The question is all wrong. It should not matter what he wants, but... "I'd like to lie down with you, comrade." Ludger is so tired. He can't hold on for much longer. Valeri is combing his hair with his soapy fingers and rubbing blood and filth off his scalp and it feels so good he wants to close his eyes and sleep forever. "Oh... I meant... after the war, Dove. What would you like to do after the war?"</p><p>A cold, suffocating darkness sets over Ludger in an instant, fills his nostrils and seeps into his lungs like cold water. His eyes well up with tears and his blood turns into ice. He shakes his head, fighting against the rising panic.</p><p>"No. The war won't end, not yet. There are plenty of enemies still, a lot more to do, I..."</p><p>Valeri's hand brushes calmingly against his cheek and the pilot whines, turning his head to the side, a wet little sob hidden in Valeri's palm.</p><p>"I'll dream, comrade. Dream in my sleeping plane that in a thousand years, they'll tell us to rise again to defend the heavens again."</p><p>"Oh, Dove..." The cold stirs and withdraws. Heat begins to radiate out, a calming warmth as Ludger goes slack in Valeri's wet, clumsy embrace.</p><p>"I'm so sorry, Dove... I didn't mean that. That doesn't have to be it, okay? Shhh... it will be better, I promise."</p><p>How could it get better? Being free in the skies bests staying in the base, but in the end, there is always the sarcophagus, pulling him back to the beginning. And landing alive? That has only ever made it worse.</p><p>But Ludger leans into the embrace, closes his eyes and allows himself to dream. Valeri's hand is still travelling through his hair, washing and combing. Maybe this is the last time and he won't wake again. Maybe Valeri will lay him to rest, to count the stars for a millennia. Valeri's hand reaches the nape of his neck, fingers grazing over the scar, and the motion freezes.</p><p>"Ludger? What is this?"</p><p> </p><p>It's a tether. A crimson impact crater. It is his North Star that keeps him locked in place, spinning over and over around the beginning again.</p><p>"It's how they put me to sleep, to wake up again, less broken", he whispers into Valeri's blood-soaked shirt.</p><p>Valeri stays very quiet for a while, studying the edges of the scar gently. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and emotionless.</p><p>"They are... not monsters, Dove. They are something much worse. Slavers under the guise of science. Despicable, cruel people, hoarding power and creating nothing but chaos. It's wrong for them to have you. Terrible. You'll never have to go back to them."</p><p>Ludger can't stop himself from wailing out loud and starting to cry. Valeri is so wrong, so wrong it hurts to even think about it. A single bitter turn of events, a single piece of metal lodged into his gut, has taken away the opportunity before it was ever given to him.</p><p>"Shhh, Dove... it's all going to get better. You're going to rest and recover, and after that, choose for yourself. Choose the life you want, find things to look forward to. This is a terrible day, but it will pass."</p><p>The pilot is limp, sobbing and shivering in agony, and Valeri gently lowers him down to rinse his hair and rub his smudged face with the washcloth once more.</p><p>"Stay with me, Ludger. We have just a little more left to do. Let's see... Have you ever hiked in the mountains?"</p><p>The cloth caresses Ludger's face, wiping away blood and filth, and sweeps over his bruised lips.</p><p>"No", the pilot sobs. He feels dizzy, but is still conscious.</p><p>He's heard dying from a wound in the gut can take hours. Perhaps that's for gunshots, though. The Professor would know.</p><p>"I'm sure you'd love it. Very peaceful, high above the commotion and noise, freedom almost like flying. Or so I have heard."</p><p>The washcloth ventures down, caressing Ludger's neck. He can't speak, just barely breathe, but the motion is so sweetly comforting he leans into it, sighing.</p><p>"Or perhaps going sailing somewhere warm? Do you think that would be interesting, Ludger?" Valeri is speaking very softly, rubbing and massaging the pilot's chest to remove tension as much as dirt.</p><p>"Somewhere south, where you could enjoy tropical heat?"</p><p>Ludger sighs, shaking his head.</p><p>"I... think I prefer the cold."</p><p>"Oh, you do?" Valeri sounds delighted, stroking Ludger's chest carefully to avoid his ribs where they have bruised purple.</p><p>"Then you would love Russia in the winter. Trees under a heavy blanket of snow, windows frosted over like lace, lakes frozen over so you could go ice skating. Hot tea, a fireplace, a good book..."</p><p>"That sounds great", Ludger mutters. His side is aching but it is a sweet ache, the flicker of a flame that refuses to go out.</p><p>"My mother and I used to bake for all the friendly people for the holidays. Sweet cakes with spice and dried fruit, and she used to sit me in a sled and we went around our friends' houses on the New Year's Eve. It looked like another planet, Dove…"</p><p>"I like the sound of another planet", Ludger mutters.</p><p>A cool, silent, white landscape without a sound, except the feather-light thuds of falling snow. A place to bury his cheek against the fluffy coat of snow and sleep like the polar animals in the Professor's books.</p><p>"Please stay awake, okay? Other planets sound really thrilling, don't they? And in a few years' time, or perhaps a few decades still, we might have moving pictures from there, and samples of all kinds. Imagine looking into the building blocks of our cosmos, Dove."</p><p>Ludger has to smile. Valeri likes the skies too. And so does the Professor. Who would not? His skin is getting a little tender and sore but he doesn't want to ask Valeri to stop. His own is turning clean and red, tainted layer of skin washing off.</p><p>The cloth swirls down, across Ludger’s abdomen, and he can’t hold back a sigh. There’s so much pain, so much he can barely recognize it any more, and his sensitized nerves are sparking under his skin and sending flashing lights into his vision. He remembers suddenly, how Valeri’s hand slithered along his exposed organs before. Wiring and tubing and machines, shivering cables untied and undone in his scientist’s hands. Red and slick and pure, a new discovery. A marvel. The same hands are softly kneading into the skin of his abused abdomen and sides, washing and caressing. If Valeri cuts him open now, there will be nothing but a terrible mess. Is he disappointed that the experiment is ruined? The expression on Valeri’s face is… The pilot doesn’t know what it is. He takes a breath and asks:</p><p>”Is everything okay, comrade?”</p><p>"Oh?" Valeri lifts his gaze, and his lips are parted in surprise.</p><p>"Yes, Dove. I was just... letting you rest for a moment, before bringing up something uncomfortable."</p><p>Ludger's empty stomach lurches. The pain inside him is stirring, tightening into a searing knot.</p><p>"... oh."</p><p>Valeri's big experiment is ruined, then, and he's preparing to salvage whatever possible. He was deluding himself to think anything otherwise. Valeri cups his chin into his palm and lifts Ludger's gaze to eye contact.</p><p>"Your intimate area should still be washed and tended to, Ludger. I'm sorry to bring this up, but that would greatly reduce your later discomfort."</p><p>Ludger blinks, blinks again, then nods almost too eagerly...</p><p>Yes, he wants the mess gone. Appearance of honour restored, if only near death, but honour still. He won't fade away still marked as the enemy's spoils.</p><p>"Yes, please, it's a mess... yes."</p><p>”Oh Dove, it’s hardly a mess. Hot water and soap, right? I’ll put my hand on your thigh now, okay?”</p><p>”Okay”, Ludger breathes, biting his lip. He must be shivering. His heart is racing, muffling all sounds so that what Valeri says next is a distant echo, but the man’s touch is calm and firm and safe. Ludger wants to stay still and let Valeri help.</p><p>Valeri’s hand moves slightly, and suddenly goosebumps rise up and the pilot’s skin turns into a million antennas receiving a signal but the code is foreign and electricity buzzes all over.</p><p>”Everything’s okay, Ludger. I won’t do anything you don’t want. Please tell me right away if you feel bad, okay?”</p><p>Ludger nods breathlessly. Even if he felt bad, he wouldn’t tell. He needs a wash. No – he doesn’t need anything, he’s going to die nevertheless. But he <em>wants</em> it. Yes. He wants a wash.</p><p>Valeri puts a hand gently between the pilot’s legs and it’s almost too much. His palm is brushing against Ludger’s manhood and there is soap and sparks and a sound. Ludger is making the sound.</p><p>”Hey, hey, Dove, it’s just me. Just your comrade Valeri, remember? You must be scared, but you’re completely safe and so, so brave. Shhh...”</p><p>Ludger stops making the sound and bites his lip until it tastes like copper. Valeri’s hand is moving between his legs and rubbing off the blood and filth and it looks so wrong but so right. No-one’s done that before: touched him there without an intent to study him or hurt him. People only ever touch to take something from him and for themselves.</p><p>The pilot hesitates a bit and then whispers:</p><p>”It.. It hurts a little, comrade.”</p><p>Valeri pulls his hand away in an instant. Ludger shakes his head furiously and looks at the man, lips trembling and pleading quietly.</p><p>”No, you don’t have to stop, please help. They just… Kicked it, and squeezed hard. That hurt… Please help.”</p><p>Valeri’s nebula eyes pause for a moment to look straight into him. Valeri smiles slowly, a forced-looking soft smile, and gives him a nod.</p><p>”Of course, Dove. Thank you for telling me. I’ll touch you a bit now, okay? Check there is no damage that needs immediate attention.”</p><p>Yes. Ludger wants to say yes. His throat stops making sound but his eyes say yes and his body says yes and he nods and goes slack so Valeri can check.</p><p>Valeri’s fingers are soft. They are the fingers of someone who always wears gloves. Fingers meant for clean, delicate work. They circle around Ludger’s manhood lightly and Valeri makes a low, calming humming sound.</p><p>”Good, very good…”</p><p>Ludger shudders and gasps, struggling to stay still. The touch is too much, less like touching a single part of him and more like tugging the nerves in his spinal cord like wires hanging from a machine.</p><p>”Shhh, it’s okay… You’re so brave, Dove, for letting me check. Does this spot hurt?”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes widen. Yes means Valeri will back away, but No means stop. Valeri’s hand envelops his manhood and it does hurt, but it’s a good, safe pain, drawing the blurry lines back on his body where they were smudged off. He searches Valeri’s face for the right answer.</p><p>”Ludger, is this spot sore?”</p><p>Yes means stop but No also means stop. The pilot’s lines are flickering around like a mirage. He grabs Valeri’s arm with his bandaged hand and wails:</p><p>”Don’t let go!”</p><p>Valeri's hand stops in place. Slowly he raises his other hand and places it on top of the pilot's arm.</p><p>"Shhh... Let's take it slow, okay? Your senses must feel very overwhelmed at the moment, Dove?"</p><p>Ludger nods, clenching his jaw. His lungs are burning and his skin is scalding hot, but his bruised manhood in Valeri's hand feels real again.</p><p>"You have a good-sized bruise here, and some swelling, Ludger." Valeri's thumb rubs the underside of his manhood carefully.</p><p>"It must be very sore, but feels like the kind of injury time and rest will heal completely, okay?"</p><p>Ludger clumsily lets the man's arm go and rests his hand on the edge of the tub again, shivering.</p><p>"I already thought this was something big when I had a look at your files for the first time, you know", Valeri says, giving him a reassuring nod.</p><p>"But never thought we'd get a chance to meet face to face. Certainly not like this." Valeri's hand descends lower, and though Ludger is not scared of him, or at least doesn't think he is, his breath hitches and his heart starts pounding so hard his chest shudders.</p><p>"The way you flew... It was so very unusual, Dove. Not just some war-crazed soldier, I was so sure of that. Even more than before, when I saw you disrupt your own troops at times."</p><p>"Y-you were watching?" Ludger tries to ask, but it doesn't come out as question, it comes out as wet cry as he holds back the urge to move.</p><p>"Shhh, it's okay, remember to breathe", Valeri says softly.</p><p>"I still need to wash and check if you've been hurt badly, Dove. That means I need to insert a finger in you. Do you think that's something you can handle?"</p><p>Ludger nods. His insides are burning with an acidic sting and a harsh, tearing pain. Valeri's hands feel so soothing on the outside, even against the pain of his bruises and wounds. It can't be vile on the inside, not filthy like the Yankees' touch.</p><p>”Just breathe, and tell me right away if you need a break, Dove.”</p><p>And with that, Valeri’s fingers are on the pilot’s bleeding hole and he flies, glides a hundred thousand kilometres into space all of a sudden. His body has become weightless, and his head is incredibly light, and pain is a far away flickering light. He can’t make a sound: there’s no air to make a sound.</p><p>”Ludger? Stay with me, okay? This must be scary for you, but please, stay here.”</p><p>The pilot tries to shake his head. I’m not scared, his mind says, but his lips don’t say anything. Valeri’s fingertips barely move, and yet they’re making Ludger’s whole body burst into tremors. His chest tightens and squeezes out a suffocated moan.</p><p>”Oh, Dove… I’m so sorry.”</p><p>The fingers study his abused rim and the pilot spins at an incredible speed, spins so hard he fears spinning out of himself completely and getting lost. He can only barely feel his legs but he locks them around Valeri not to spin and fall away.</p><p>”Shhh, just relax...”</p><p>Ludger can’t, but relaxing would not do much good in any case. Valeri’s finger slips inside his slick, bloody hole without any force. Ludger cries out as it sparks his nerve ends back to life in full, making his vision flash blinding white for a moment.</p><p>The finger moves around, carefully rubbing and studying the damage, leaving a searing heat where it touches.</p><p>”Ludger… I need to check a little deeper, okay? I’ll put a second finger in there, just relax, okay.”</p><p>”Okay”, The pilot gasps, biting his lip, eyes screwed shut. It hurts. It hurts in a raw and real way, and he can feel filthy things leaking out. He wants the raw, real pain to flush over him. Like death in the blaze of glory. A red, searing burn.</p><p>”Just to check, okay?” Valeri mutters, and the second finger goes inside as easily as the first. The splash of blood and filth is replaced by an intoxicating heat.</p><p>The pilot’s head lulls back and he moans, melting into liquid glass and glistening in the stellar radiation. His nerves are smoking in the spectacular glow. He will die. He will die and burn through space and time and sink through all that is and is not to Valhalla.</p><p>A long, shaky moan makes the pilot’s body shudder. The handle of the bayonet grazes his insides. His eyes fly open. The bayonet.</p><p>”No”, he gasps.</p><p>”No, no, no! Take them out, please”, he whimpers.</p><p>Valeri pulls his fingers out, startled. A flow of liquid blood gushes out, Valeri looking down, speechless. Ludger looks down. The bathwater turns dark crimson.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Daybreak Mantle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Daybreak Mantle</h1><p> </p><p>”I’m sorry”, the pilot breathes, looking at the darkening water.</p><p>”Dove?” Valeri is looking at him, eyes wide.</p><p>”Forgive me! I didn’t want to tell, I’m sorry”, Ludger whines, grabbing the man’s bloody hand. He can’t hold back the shivers any more, his muscles are contracting and more blood leaks out.</p><p>”Please don’t leave me alone!”</p><p>Valeri pauses for a little while. Then he looks at the pilot with a calm, gentle expression again, and takes his hand that is desperately trying to grasp something.</p><p>”I’m right here. You need to tell me exactly what happened so I can help you, okay?”</p><p>”I’m sorry, it’s too late... I didn’t want to tell, please forgive me, comrade.” Ludger takes Valeri’s hand and presses it against his stomach so hard the outline of the bayonet presses against the skin.</p><p>”I just wished… wished that you could have held me. That we could have laid down and you could have held me as I go away. Then I’d have that memory always, even though we’ll probably never meet again.”</p><p>”What is it, Dove?” Valeri asks slowly. His voice is calm, his expression doesn’t falter, but his hand has grown cold against Ludger’s skin.</p><p>”You have to tell me so I can help.”</p><p>The pilot swallows hard, eyes so clouded with tears he can barely see Valeri’s outline through the blur. Valeri’s hand is cold and his voice is unnaturally soft, and Ludger can’t bring himself to stay quiet.</p><p>”They put a bayonet in me”, he whispers.</p><p>”They put their parts and a bayonet in me and now I’ll never stop bleeding an no-one will ever want to touch me.”</p><p>Very gently, Valeri starts stroking his stomach with his fingertips.</p><p>”Shh, Dove. Shhh... Let me take you to bed, okay? I promised.” He fumbles the plug out from the tub and the bloody water starts draining out.</p><p>”Really?”</p><p>”Of course, Dove. I promised. I’ve waited for so long to talk to you like this, to meet in person and have you answer. Just… you wait for just a minute, I’ll put the brace back on so I can help you.”</p><p>"No, please... Don't leave. I can walk. I can help you", Ludger whispers, feeling a coldness creeping back into him like a rising fever.</p><p>"Please don't make me lay here alone, comrade. I'm not a thing."</p><p>Valeri looks at him, mouth half-open, and then nods slowly.</p><p>"Okay, Dove. Okay. If you can stand up, you can hold the wheelchair for support. Is that okay?"</p><p>The pilot nods. Yes. He's not useless. He can help Valeri.</p><p>Valeri lifts himself up from the tub, and onto the wheelchair, holding on to the edges. His arms tremble while he does, but he doesn't say anything.</p><p>"Is it... is it hard to live in a crippled body?" Ludger blurts out, and regrets it as soon as the words leave his lips. If Valeri wasn't going to leave him before, he surely will now.</p><p>Valeri stops folding a towel onto his lap and turns to look at Ludger with a tender, sad expression.</p><p>"Come on, Dove. Let's get you out of the tub. Put your hands around my neck, okay?"</p><p>The pilot does, and Valeri wraps a towel around his shoulders before taking a hold of Ludger under the arms and lifting him up. Valeri helps him sit onto the edge of the tub, caressing his back softly as Ludger is seated.</p><p>"Now we should get your legs over the side. Think you could do that, Dove?"</p><p>"Affirmative", the pilot breathes.</p><p>He is already dead, the pain will soon end anyway... but he fears Valeri's silent retaliation. Clumsily he lifts his pale leg over the edge, and a red streak runs down it like a waterfall.</p><p>"Can you fly, Ludger?" Valeri asks softly against his ear, and the pilot startles.</p><p>No, he prays in his mind. Don't drop me, please.</p><p>"No", he gasps. Valeri hums softly and pats him on the back.</p><p>"And now the other leg, Dove." Ludger moves it over the edge. He's now eye to eye with Valeri. The watercolor eyes reflect a strong, veiled feeling. "But with a plane you can, Dove. Right?"</p><p>"Yes", the pilot's lips say. But his mind says no no no, his mind says put a finger through my palm, hit me, raise your voice, please don't look away.</p><p>"Well, Dove... what is Nachtmahr then, if not a pair of human-made wings for a bird who was born without them?"</p><p>There is no hit, no strike in anger, no retaliation. Valeri's lips pull into a sad smile.</p><p>"I don't live in a crippled body, Ludger. No-one does. We live in a crippled world."</p><p>Getting onto the shaking feet that are leaving bloody footprints onto the floor feels like trying to stand on someone else's legs. The pilot's head spins, a vertigo that makes him sway like he was drunk, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair like the controls of a crashing plane.</p><p>"I... I got this, comrade. Let me help", he mutters, vision flashing into darkness and then light again as he takes a step forward.</p><p>"I... thank you, Ludger. Thank you. Just a few meters, then I'll help you to get nice and dry and warm."</p><p>It feels like wading through tar. Ludger’s feet are clumsy and numb and he drags them along and leaves a sticky trail of blood behind. He hurts so much it’s making him nauseous, but if he bows down to heave, he won’t get back up. He concentrates on Valeri’s voice and keeps stepping forward.</p><p>”I watched you for such a long time, Dove. Grew to know you throught a telescope, your intelligence and your fearlessness – and even your heart. And I listened to you through the radio, listened to you talking to me: telling of your thunderous rage and your intoxicating joy and of your nameless sorrow, and I knew we had to be kindred souls. And now, finally, I’ve gotten a chance to meet you in person.”</p><p>”And I’m going away”, Ludger breathes with a pained voice. This has been a one in a million chance, a mad statistical error, and it’s bound to come to an end in the coming moments as life streams out of him like fuel from a slashed open fuel tank.</p><p>"But we got to meet, Ludger, and I got to learn I do not know you yet like I thought I did."</p><p>"You... don't?" Ludger mutters.</p><p>"Am I not... like you wanted me?"</p><p>Valeri laughs, a joyless laugh that makes Ludger's heart sting.</p><p>"Quite the contrary, Dove. You are so much more. Come on now…"</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They have closed the distance to the bed and Valeri throws a folded towel down onto the sheets.</p><p>"Have a seat, Dove. I'll get everything we need closer so I won't have to leave your side after this."</p><p>The pilot stumbles onto the towel, dripping water and blood, trying to catch his breath. The pain is getting worse, making his every breath a burning flash in his chest.</p><p>"Comrade?" He mutters, wrapping his arms around his aching belly.</p><p>"How long does it take, to die from a stab to the insides?"</p><p>Valeri, lap full of things and a medic's bag in his hand turns to look at him, face pale and eyes wet.</p><p>"It doesn't matter, Dove. We are here now and next I'll help you dry up and get under a nice warm blanket."</p><p>"Was it... were you watching me when I crashed?" Ludger asks suddenly. Valeri looks almost surprised, and gives him a quick nod.</p><p>"I was. I'm never very far these days, Dove. Okay now... let's dry you all nicely, okay?"</p><p>Ludger nods, sighing a sigh of relief when Valeri moves himself onto the bed .</p><p>"How do you know where I'll go next, comrade? I never fly with fixed orders." Valeri takes a new towel and starts patting the pilot's wet hair down.</p><p>"I am good at guessing... and I feel like I know you, Dove."</p><p>Ludger looks at the man carefully.</p><p>"Will you be watching me then, when I get back up there?"</p><p>"Of course, Dove."</p><p>"Will you hunt me down again, comrade?"</p><p>Valeri looks at him surprised, almost smiling.</p><p>"You think I hunted you down? It wasn't me that shot your plane down."</p><p>The pilot blinks. No, he didn't assume it was. He remembers the torn wing, remembers the harsh fall and yet how the impact was left futile, dooming him into this unforeseen nightmare. But there is still the glimmer of glass, the flashing needle of fate that ties everything together.</p><p>"... but it was you who recovered me."</p><p>A silence, a fragile fragment of peace, hovers over them as Valeri pats the pilot dry and pulls the bedcovers away to make way. Valeri puts yet new towels down, and an image courses through the pilot's foggy brain.</p><p>The professor making the bed, putting down a rubber cover under the sheets, to stop him from bleeding onto the mattress. He remembers the sticky heat and the smell of copper and sick. Remembers how the mess eventually flooded over and out, feverish sheets soaked in blood and gore and slick, porous organs... and how the Professor beamed when he still opened his eyes the morning after and cried.</p><p>"Can I help you to lie down, Dove?" Valeri asks softly. Ludger startles, finding himself slumped on one side, dizzy and exhausted.</p><p>”Okay", he mutters, unable to hold the whimpers that escape his lips when Valeri lifts his legs onto the bed and manouvers him onto the towels. The bayonet bites into his flesh from the inside, making him squeeze his eyes shut and pant in pain.</p><p>"Do you want something for the pain?" Valeri asks softly.</p><p>"No", Ludger cries.</p><p>"Please no, just... hold me, please. You held me in the truck too, yes?"</p><p>The pain is making it hard for him to speak but he wants to know. Valeri goes quiet for a while. Then, almost shyly, he turns to look at Ludger, hands frozen in place while buttoning up a dry shirt.</p><p>"I... yes, I did. How did you know?"</p><p>"You… know what he did in the truck, when we transported you here?” The pilot whispers, eyes going glassy.</p><p>"Oh yes, Ritter… The guy was crazy about you… He held you the whole way back, didn’t let us touch you, wanted to keep you all to himself…"</p><p>Valeri's expression has gone from shy to pale and wide-eyed.</p><p>"What do you think I did, Dove?"</p><p>"Nothing, Ritter… Sweet nothing. Bandaged you up, held your head on his lap and secured you through the transport like some sort of fucked up pietà statue… He couldn’t stop looking at your fucked-up Nazi mug. Maybe we should have ruined that for him before he died, huh Ritter? Could have made you fuck him bloody."</p><p>Valeri should be horrified. Maybe he is. His mouth is half-open, smooth edges of his teeth gleaming under the lips, and his cheeks are splashed with crimson. Slowly he puts his hands onto his lap, shirt forgotten halfway open.</p><p>”I’m… I’m sorry, comrade. I wouldn’t want to make you bleed like that, I’m not… I’m not like that, please don’t think I am”, Ludger whispers and takes Valeri’s hand.</p><p>”Dancing in the dark in stories is nothing like that. I didn’t think it would be so…” He goes quiet, shivering. Painful? Violent? Bloody? Hateful? Terrifying? Valeri fondles his bandaged hand softly.</p><p>”It’s not always like that, Dove. It’s…” Valeri looks the pilot in the eyes and is about to say something and then doesn’t. The pilot grasps his hand tighter.</p><p>”Did someone dance with you too, comrade?”</p><p>”Oh… no, Dove. No... Shh, everything is all right. Let’s get you under the blankets, okay?”</p><p>”I’m so cold… Can you come too?”</p><p>Perhaps Valeri is scared, because he looks at Ludger for a long time but doesn’t say or do anything. Ludger takes Valeri’s hand to his face and nuzzles it softly.</p><p>”Please, I don’t want to be alone. It hurts so much.”</p><p>Tears are gathering into the corners of the pilot’s eyes. He can barely breathe, muscles around his abdomen are tightening painfully and the pain pulsates sickeningly.</p><p>”Oh Dove… Of course.”</p><p>Valeri moves his legs closer to Ludger, and he notices for the first time that they don’t look… sick or crippled? They are long, slender legs, pale like the rest of Valeri, and he aids their movement with his hands comfortably, like one might adjust clothes.</p><p>”Your legs don’t hurt?” The pilot asks, grazing his fingertips over Valeri’s thigh as the man moves to sit close to him and pulls a blanket over them. Valeri’s face flushes so red Ludger fears he has said something terrible again, but Valeri shakes his head.</p><p>”No, they don’t at all. You thought they did?”</p><p>”I just… I hurt all over when they broke my back”, Ludger mutters and nuzzles his bruised face against Valeri’s thigh.</p><p>”I’m glad they don’t hurt, comrade. Being numb must be better.”</p><p>A deep blush creeps onto Valeri’s cheeks and he looks down to the pilot. Ludger is shivering constantly, like in the wake of a high fever. Valeri combs his fingers into his damp hair and fondles his temple softly.</p><p>”So… You wouldn’t have felt me violating you? I would have made so sure to not break you and make you bleed, and embraced you like you did when you comforted me... and then perhaps you would not have been as scared as I was?” The pilot whimpers, wrapping his arm around Valeri’s thighs.</p><p>”The Professor said I shouldn’t let people hold me because they might get ideas… But I think they got ideas anyway. Am I just made for it, comrade?”</p><p>”Hey, hey, shhh… None of that, Dove. Shh...” Valeri runs his palm gently over Ludger’s cheek.</p><p>”You are beautiful and brave and very kind and made for good things. Nothing you could ever do or say could ever mean it’s right to hurt you like that. And… Thank you, Dove”, the man says, but his voice is oddly quiet and he has turned his gaze away.</p><p>You’ll thank me afterwards.The pilot tastes metal and sharp, electric fear.</p><p>You’ll thank me afterwards too. The sensations are too much, a cold sweat rising onto his skin as the tearing intrusion inside him makes his muscles spasm. He freezes, drawing a shaky breath through his mouth. He can’t move, not even curl up around the searing pain inside him.</p><p>We have helped you get rid of your awkward little secret, Pissfaggot. Deflowered you all nicely and shown you what it’s like with a real man, so that you don’t die as a pathetic, clueless, bed-wetting virgin. Aren’t you thankful?</p><p>Ludger lets out a muffled scream and slaps his bandaged palm onto his mouth. He is making noise, crying and moaning and his body is rocking unvoluntarily against the pain, and Valeri’s wide, horrified eyes show he heard every word too.</p><p>”Don’t say thanks. Please… just come hold me, comrade, I… I think I’ll die.”</p><p>To the pilot’s surprise, Valeri does. He sinks into a resting position against the pillows and slowly, carefully wraps his arms around the pilot’s shivering body.</p><p>”Shhh, everything’s okay. I’m right here. Come here, Dove...” Valeri mutters and pulls Ludger closer. Ludger buries his mouth against the man’s collarbone to stop himself from saying anything more wrong. Valeri smells so good, even after a soak in the bloody bathtub, and his clean shirt is soft and carries a light, pure scent, and his hands fondle the pilot’s back slowly. Ludger wishes it would ease the pain.</p><p>”I’ll be right here for the whole time. You can just rest now. It’s okay”, Valeri says softly, and his breath is hot against Ludger’s ear.</p><p>”You are as good and pure as you ever were, Dove. The only purity that matters is the purity of the heart… And you have the purest heart, and an innocent, curious soul.”</p><p>”Like a child?”, the pilot whines, jaw clenching in pain and tears beading onto his cheeks and dripping onto Valeri’s chest.</p><p>”Like a…? Oh no, not like a child, Dove. Like a scientist, or like a brilliant computing device.”</p><p>”Oh...” The pilot’s breath gets stuck to his throat for a while. No. He’s not a scientist. He couldn’t be a scientist. He’s the test. He’s always been the test. Living to fly and bleed and die.</p><p>There is blood under the sheets, a slippery stain spreading from between his thighs and soaking into the towels and making his skin slick against Valeri’s. Maybe Valeri is okay with it, though, because he hasn’t… Ludger’s eyes widen.</p><p>”Comrade, I’m making a mess on you too, I’m sorry”, he whispers hastily. He has rocked himself in pain, smearing the blood against Valeri’s thigh and now that Valeri holds him in the close embrace, on his lap too.</p><p>”I know, comrade, I feel it too. It doesn’t matter, if this is making you feel at least a little better. Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>”You… feel it?” Ludger’s eyes are watering. Valeri feels it… so he would feel being hurt too. With a shaking hand he reaches out and clumsily fondles Valeri’s thigh. The image of blood and worse things dripping from Valeri’s body strikes him. The thought makes him sick.</p><p>”I’m… I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to make you hurt.”</p><p>Valeri takes his hand and holds it gently.</p><p>”You have not, and would not, Dove. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier, I just assumed you might be more comfortable if I said nothing. I’m sorry. Do you want me to put trousers on?”</p><p>”What, no…? No, just please stay here”, the pilot mumbles, pressing his face back against Valeri’s collarbone.</p><p>Without the bayonet, this would be lovely. Now it is a breathtaking wait, a countdown plummeting down from an unknown number, while the enemy’s weapon still lingers within him. Ludger hangs on to Valeri’s shirt, his warm embrace, and the soothing scent of peace, but the bayonet tears into him like the enemies never stopped. He holds onto Valeri like he’s holding on to his draining life, taking one ragged breath at a time and listening to Valeri’s heartbeat. Teeth gritted, he takes the pain until he can’t any more, and breaks down crying.</p><p>”Oh Dove… Would you let me administer you painkillers?”</p><p>Ludger shakes his head furiously.</p><p>”Please, no… Just take it out, comrade. I don’t want them near me when I go, just you.”</p><p>”Dove...” Valeri looks at him, serious and pale.</p><p>”You understand that that will hurt and won’t increase your chances, right?”</p><p>Ludger nods.</p><p>”I just… want it to be just the two of us, before I go.”</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll try to make this as painless and comfortable for you as I can, okay?”</p><p>”Okay”, the pilot breathes, but his face is already shimmering with sweat. He is rested on the bed, head low and legs raised with pillows, a corner of a blanket pulled over his upper body.</p><p>”Remember to tell me if you feel scared or bad in any way, Dove”, Valeri reminds softly, but it’s little more than a platitude. The pilot’s skin has lost is sheen and is radiating sickly warmth, and his cheeks are burning feverish red. The first stages of sepsis, most likely.</p><p>”I’m not scared”, the pilot mutters, and Valeri smiles to him and fondles his thigh.</p><p>”See this bottle. Dove? This is just my personal medical lubricant. It might feel a little cold but won’t do much anything besides making you more comfortable. I’ll touch you now, okay?”</p><p>”Yes, please”, the pilot moans, and Valeri has to look away. The pained little cries he emits are almost too much, playing a trick on Valeri’s mind. Perhaps it is a defense mechanism, an escape to an imagined reality, but Ludger is not to blame.</p><p>Valeri takes a deep breath and slowly puts his slicked hand between the pilot’s legs. When his fingers reach the abused rim, Ludger gasps and grabs the blanket into his fists. The pilot’s flesh is hot and raw, dripping blood and quivering under the delicate touch.</p><p>”Everything okay, Dove?” Valeri asks, fondling the pilot’s stomach. The skin is matted ivory, stamped with a purple bruise like a sealed letter, shivering under the touch. Thin blood vessels are barely gleaming through, like invisible ink.</p><p>”Yes, please keep going”, the pilot sobs, writhing as Valeri’s fingers enter him carefully. The pilot’s breath seizes momentarily. He’s biting his lip, fighting against himself to stay still, pale eyes locking gaze with Valeri for a second before they roll back and the pilot moans, body going slack.</p><p>”Shhh, hey… Don’t force yourself, we’ll take it slow”, Valeri whispers.</p><p>The pilot’s rim is swollen and slick with blood, and the inside is fever-hot, almost gelatinous wetness. It’s hard to even identify for sure what he’s feeling.</p><p>”Is it… is it bad? Is it too disgusting?” The pilot whimpers, looking at him through tears, half-closed eyes.</p><p>”What? No, of course not”, Valeri utters, quickly relaxing his face. He pets the pilot’s stomach gently and smiles.</p><p>”I’m a man of science, Dove, and I must tend my own medical issues too. Nothing about you could disgust me. It’s just… You’ve been hurt pretty badly and I don’t want to make you feel worse, okay?”</p><p>The pilot’s skin is ghastly pale, deep red hue blooming on his face and extremities. He shakes his head, gasping.</p><p>”No, please go on”, he whines. His lips are two pale lines, the mouth beyond them a deep red, like the inside of a cherry, and each pristine tooth is pearly and sharp.</p><p>Whoever sculpted him, be it scientists in a laboratory or nature herself, had remarkable attention to detail.</p><p>Valeri reaches his fingers carefully deeper, and the pilot shudders and moans. It’s a deceivingly mesmerizing sight, and without the blood trickling out it it would be easy to imagine him in throes of passion rather than pain. His soft flesh gives way, stirring and palpitating with each movement, wrapping around Valeri’s digits. It’s squishy and smooth like firm jelly, unlike anything he’s felt before. The weapon is nowhere to be found, though.</p><p>”I’m afraid this has to get a bit more invasive, Dove. The… the object seems to have been pushed fairly deep. Are you sure you want me to continue?”</p><p>”Yes, please take it out, comrade. It’s okay, just go deeper, I’ll take it, please”, the pilot sobs, squeezing the blanket in his fists, knuckles white. His muscles are quivering but he stays still, looking at Valeri through the tears.</p><p>”It’s just momentary pain, you can’t hurt me like they did… please.”</p><p>”Shh, Dove… I’ll do it. Just… try to relax and breathe, okay? It will be so much easier for you if you’ll let your muscles go slack.”</p><p>”Okay”, the pilot breathes and allows his head to lull on the side, eyes still locked with Valeri’s.</p><p>Third finger slides inside smoothly, but when Valeri tries to fit in a fourth one, the pilot tenses up and wails, insides tightening around Valeri’s fingers. He stops immediately, shushing softly and fondling the pilot’s stomach.</p><p>”Please don’t stop, comrade Valeri...”</p><p>The breathless moan is so sincere, yet so innocently oblivious Valeri blushes. If only his Dove could hear himself… He works his fingers around, carefully easing what little muscle resistance there is left, massaging the pilot’s thigh.</p><p>”Good, good… Just breathe, Dove, just like that...”</p><p>The pilot is panting, eyes rolling back when Valeri reaches his fingers a little further and brush against the handle of the weapon. The pilot’s manhood stirs and begins to swell. It’s a beautiful thing despite the bruising, a gradient from paper-white to rosy blush-red rising along the shaft towards the tip like a budding flower, framed by a halo of light curls.</p><p>”Oh Dove… Don’t care about it, it’s a perfectly natural response to pain sometimes, and I’m a scientist, I don’t mind.”</p><p>”What?” The pilot moans, biting his lip.</p><p>”You’re just… nothing to be alarmed about, Dove. Just breathe, okay”, Valeri whispers softly. The pilot’s eyes open wide and his muscles tense up again.</p><p>”What? Is something wrong? Did I do something? Am I disgusting you, comrade?” He whimpers.</p><p>Valeri shakes his head quickly.</p><p>”Oh no, Dove. No, no, you’re good, you’re beautiful, all is good… I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable with the… response.”</p><p>”The… response?” The pilot moans, his member filling up further. Little lines, perhaps veins under the skin, become visible like folded petals, and the pilot shifts his hips.</p><p>”It’s perfectly natural that, uh… You see, Dove, pain stimulus and certain kinds of examination may stimulate nerves so that… It’s none of your fault, please don’t worry. Just keep breathing...”</p><p>”What is happening? Please tell me”, the pilot begs, eyes teary.</p><p>”Shh, everything’s okay… you just, uh… have an erection, Dove”, Valeri whispers.</p><p> </p><p>The pilot stares at him, then at his hardening member, and then him again, eyes widening.</p><p>”Oh no, I’m sorry! Forgive me, comrade, I don’t mean anything by it, please...” His apologies are paused by a startled moan when Valeri adjusts his fingers carefully.</p><p>”… oh… comrade Valeri, please… I don’t want to scare you… please, I can’t control it, sorry, sorry...” He is panting, muscles contracting around the examination.</p><p>His manhood twitches into even fuller attention, and Valeri brushes his free hand on it softly, petting the smooth skin carefully.</p><p>It’s more delicate than any human skin, so soft and clean it feels wrong to even touch it without gloves. It is fine like a butterfly’s wing or an ancient silk, and yet it doesn’t shatter on contact, it stiffens up and twitches to greet Valeri’s palm.</p><p>”Oh no, Dove…. Shhh… I’m not scared. I know you wouldn’t do anything bad. You are kind and good and your manhood is for lovely things only. It’s beautiful and pure and could never scare me, okay?”</p><p>Out of an impulse, Valeri bows down and places a gentle kiss on tip of the pilot’s manhood.</p><p>He rises up, face covered in deep blush and gazes at the pilot’s face, almost startled by what he just did.</p><p>”So… don’t worry about it, Dove. I’ll, uh… continue. Please just relax.”</p><p>"You... you kissed it", the pilot blurts out, eyes wide and mouth half-open.</p><p>"You kissed me there", he whimpers, grabbing Valeri's hand.</p><p>"It was too sudden. l'm sorry, Dove, l..."</p><p>"Your mouth is so soft", the pilot mutters, gaze cloudy with fever.</p><p>"Can you kiss me more before I go?" Valeri emits a muffled groan and pets the pilot's stomach gently.</p><p>"We'll see about that, Dove.. let's get this over with, okay?"</p><p>"...Okay", the pilot whines, muscles in his body contracting as Valeri moves his fingers.</p><p>He looks pale and nauseous, air catching in his throat as his body tenses up. His abused hole barely does, though, the wet hot insides merely fluttering and quivering against Valeri's touch. His digits can venture as freely as he dares to let them, the torn jelly-like flesh wrapping around his hand softly.</p><p>"Shh, Dove.... You're doing so well... just keep breathing."</p><p>There is very little muscle resistance, but the pilot keeps gasping and sobbing in pain, writhing and bucking against the sensations, while his member twitches with every movement. His half-lidded eyes and the shock creeping over his features give an impression of a blissful trance, like a saint about to be raptured.</p><p>The handle of the weapon is slippery in Valeri’s fingertips, just out of reach. The pilot’s breathing is becoming ragged, and Valeri tries to comfort him, rubbing his abdomen softly and whispering encouragements.</p><p>”Just a little bit more, Dove… Just a little bit more... It will be over soon.”</p><p>”Please no, not too fast”, the pilot cries.</p><p>Valeri slows down, though it might be the approaching end he’s protesting.</p><p>As long as Valeri has waited for his Dove, prolonging Ludger’s half-life would be a cruel deed, though. If the blood loss won’t soon end the pilot’s suffering, the bottle of morphine in the medic’s bag might. The flutter of red flares on his feverish skin, a spreading inflammation. The futile last stand before his organs, bursting and ripe, begin to perish.</p><p>Clear blood seeps out and drips along Valeri’s wrist like pomegranate juice. This is not a journey out of the land of the dead, though, and the pilot, trapped in a delirious state of euphoria-like agony is not Persephone. He is Prometheus, writhing in the throes of death to arise renewed, come the cruel light of the morning.</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll still hear you when you get back up there, Dove. I’ll be listening.”</p><p>”You will?” The pilot gasps, eyes rolling back bekind the feather-light lashes.</p><p>”Of course, Dove. I’ll travel below like your shadow, listen to your every joy and sorrow, record your thoughts and your deeds into my notebook like it were your diary. Do you like that?”</p><p>”Yes! Yes, I do, I do!” The pilot unravels into sobs, rocking his hips away from the pain, or perhaps into it, like a rare butterfly impaled to a pin. About to turn into a pristine corpse-specimen at the hands of a collector, while he could be fluttering over a meadow like a whisper or like a speck of shy starlight.</p><p>”Perhaps… Perhaps I can even find a way to talk back to you, Dove. We can talk to each other, until I find you again”, Valeri whispers.</p><p>It is a juvenile daydream. Imagination of a dreamy schoolboy, who still believes in heroes and happy endings, whispered under the blanket of starts in a warm night of May. Not a promise for a dying enemy, laying in a growing blossom of crimson.</p><p>He whispers it anyway, and his Dove smiles. Beams through the tears and the invisible wind that shakes him, wrapping his weak legs around Valeri’s body like a lover, sighing and moaning in agony as Valeri’s fingers press deeper and wrap around the hilt of the weapon.</p><p> </p><p>”You’ve done so well… So brave, Dove. So, so good for me...” Valeri has to reach to fondle the pilot’s pale cheek.</p><p>His skin is hot and moist with sweat and tears, and while the pilot is crying in agony, his manhood is weeping a string of crystal-clear tears onto his shivering abdomen. It’s a sight too pure to look with the tainted eyes of a mortal, but Valeri can’t look away, for he has to record each breath, since one of them will be the last.</p><p>”Dove? I can now take it out, if you want me to.”</p><p>”Will you.. hold my hand, comrade?”</p><p>Valeri wraps entwines his fingers with the pilot’s, and steadies his grip around the hilt.</p><p>”Ready, Dove?”</p><p>”Yes... please, comrade!”</p><p> </p><p>Valeri tugs the weapon a bit, a single soft movement, not much more violent than uncapping a pen.</p><p>What follows is a heart-wrenching wail from the pilot who goes rigid, and a sudden gush of hot blood that wets Valeri’s hand on an instant, though the blade has barely moved. An unending stream or wordless wailing is escaping from between the pilot’s clenched jaw and his sharp, claw-like nails are digging into Valeri’s palm.</p><p>The pilot can’t stop screaming and crying, doesn’t hear Valeri over his own panicked wails, and doesn’t react when Valeri tries to fondle his clenched hand despite the grip. Terror and guilt take over and in a panicked moment he pushes the blade back into where it was released from the pilot’s burning, wet insides. The pilot cries for a heartbeat more, then falls silent and releases Valeri’s now bleeding hand.</p><p> </p><p>”Dove?” Valeri gasps. The pilot’s head lulls onto the side and he lets out a quiet, shivering sigh.</p><p>”… yes, comrade?”</p><p>His cheeks have gone ghastly, translucent porcelain -pale, the crimson of his mouth gaping like a wound in his paper-white face. His chest is fluttering rapidly, eyes moving behind the lids.</p><p>”I don’t… I don’t think I should do that any more, Dove. I don’t want you to remember the pain when you remember me”, Valeri says softly.</p><p>”I won’t, comrade... I swear, I’ll remember your hands and your voice only. Please...” The pilot’s voice is trembling and wet and a sob rattles his bleeding body.</p><p>”Please take it out, comrade… Pain doesn’t hurt when it comes from you, please… I don’t want them continuing any more.”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes peer at Valeri in a pleading way from under his lashes, tears running down his cheek and a string of moist beads trickling from his still stiff manhood.</p><p>”Okay, Dove. Okay. I understand how much that means to you”, Valeri murmurs softly, fondling the pilot’s stomach.</p><p>”In that case, I need you to relax and trust me just a little bit more, okay?”</p><p>”Why?” The pilot’s voice is a mumbled sob, his hips bucking against the pain involuntarily and bleeding insides squirming against Valeri’s fingers.</p><p>”Please just trust me, Dove”, Valeri whispers gently, his fingertips creeping carefully up along the shaft.</p><p>The pilot has lost so much muscle tension. Surely enough to not sever Valeri’s fingers all the way off when he’ll wrap his hand around the blade and pull.</p><p>There is a medic in the base. With some luck, he might be able to re-connect the tendons and muscles afterward.</p><p>Hopefully, with time and practice, the ability to write and buckle the leg brace independently can be regained. But when Valeri looks at his Dove, none of that is of significance. This is their heartbeat together, the once in a lifetime -moment of being grazed by a graceful comet before it’s obscured again for eternity.</p><p> </p><p>”What are you doing, comrade?” the pilot whimpers, eyes widening as Valeri’s digits carefully travel towards the edge of the hilt.</p><p>”You can’t be… oh, no, please don’t… I didn’t mean...”</p><p>He is writhing in ecstatic agony, too overwhelmed to register the hand rubbing against his sliced-open flesh any more. Rocking against the intrusion as Valeri’s fingers sink deeper like into the luscious pulp of a fruit and sweet blood trickles out.</p><p>”Shh, Dove. I don’t mind, please let me do this for you. For everything you’ve done for me.”</p><p>”What do you mean, comrade? I haven’t… Oh, please, not this… You promised to write , remember? You promised to write for me, comrade Valeri...”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are rolling back and breath coming in short, pained gasps. His insides palpates around Valeri, burning and wet.</p><p>”I do still have my left hand, Dove, and an excellent typewriter… I’ll…” Valeri falls silent as his fingers meet the surface of slick, smooth leather.</p><p>”Dove...” He gasps, pausing in place. The pilot startles and focuses his eyes to Valeri, panting hard.</p><p>”Comrade? You… please don’t...”</p><p>Valeri reaches his fingers carefully around the weapon again, feeling the seams of a leather scabbard. His head spins.</p><p> </p><p>”Dove… Please stay still and breathe, there is a change of plans”, he says very softly.</p><p>”No, please… I want it out, just pull it out, comrade… Cut me open, I don’t care, please just do it”, the pilot begs, back arching.</p><p>”Push it through my belly, get everything out, please.. I want just you... slice me open, comrade! Cut through me from spine to belly! Push it out my throat, it won’t hurt, I swear, just get it out!” He is sobbing, pulsating around Valeri’s hand, wet and hot and alive, eyes burning with tears and the nameless want.</p><p>”Shh, Dove…. Shh, it’s okay, it’s more than okay, please just lay still”, Valeri whispers, voice hoarse like a desperate prayer.</p><p>But the pilot doesn’t hear, or perhaps register, body arching to a convulsion-like shiver. Valeri wraps his fingertips around the scabbard carefully and pulls, and his Dove whimpers. There’s no new surge of blood, and no cries of pain, though. Instead the pilot’s body quivers like a butterfly escaping it’s cocoon, like a flickering flame or an aurora. Red flutters and blossoms on his pale skin like the coming of spring, and because this is Persephone too, because his cheeks are flushing and the shadow of death is shifting away.</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are squeezed shut but his lips are moving, quiet words pouring out like a transmission.</p><p>”Slash me open and spill my guts out, comrade… hold my tainted insides and carry me to Valhalla. Nothing, nothing you do could hurt me. I’m already of the dead, hold me as I unravel, let me bleed out in your hands, comrade Valeri!”</p><p>”Shh, Dove…” Valeri mutters, stroking his palm over the pilot’s rigid stomach, pulling the weapon out carefully, little by little. The man doesn’t hear or at least comply, though, getting increasingly vocal by the moment, hissing in agony.</p><p>”Get your other hand in there and split me open… if I have to die right here... don’t ever let me wake up… dig my heart out and hold it, comrade… Tear my damned heart out and devour it... I want to be within you, don’t make me die alone, dig my bloody heart out and eat it while it still beats...”</p><p>The pilot is gasping, fists tightened around the blanket and cheeks wet with tears. His muscles are tense like the strings of an instrument and he is playing an otherworldly tune, a range of beautiful, inhumane sounds as his chest rises and falls rapidly.</p><p>”Shh, that’s it... just a little bit more, just breathe for me, Dove...”</p><p>”This is the end, I can’t hold on! I’m dying, comrade, I’m dying… Hold me, Valeri! Guide me to the afterlife! Kill me, rip my heart out, bring me to my fucking end!” The pilot cries out, voice becoming a muffled scream as his body goes into an euphoric seizure.</p><p>He reaches out grabbing Valeri’s shirt collar and tugging it with violent intensity. Valeri loses balance, half-toppling onto him. As the sheathed bayonet slides from inside him, slick and scarlet in Valeri’s hand, a spurt of shimmering white shoots from the pilots manhood and onto his silky stomach.</p><p>”Oh”, Valeri breathes, the bayonet slipping from his hand.</p><p>The pilot’s pale eyes flash before rolling back, his crystal-sharp nails dig into Valeri’s sides through the shirt and the wet heat spreads between them as he spills and unravels.</p><p> </p><p>”Oh, Dove...” Valeri mutters against his dew-moist skin, as their trembling bodies collide. The downpour cascades like heavy summer rain, warm and heavy with the smell of roses and earth, and the pilot’s heat presses against Valeri’s.</p><p>It is a thunderstorm over an orchard, a roar of the pilot’s heartbeat, and his own, deafening Valeri for a moment.</p><p>The rain pours, pooling and spilling over, and the lightning-strike of the sharp nails makes him shudder, digging into his vulnerable flesh and drawing blood and nectar.</p><p>Thunder billows over the vales and hills, and the claws carve crimson crescents in their wake. A final rumble, then silence falls above the orchards and meadows, smelling of juice and ozone, and the clouds part.</p><p> </p><p>The pilot lies down, panting, bright eyes peering at Valeri below the pale lashes.</p><p>”What… What happened?”</p><p>”A miracle, Dove”, Valeri whispers. Life is returning to the pilot’s features, the scarlet undercurrent is painting his lips with cherry and blushing the tip of his nose.</p><p>”What does… what does that mean, comrade?”</p><p>”You’re going to live, Dove. You’ll get better and stay with me”, Valeri giggles, joy and nerves unraveling uncontrollably.</p><p>”There was a scabbard! I’ll fix you, Dove. I’ll fix you and keep you and you’ll never have to go back.”</p><p>They are laying almost face to face, and Valeri leans to place a kiss on the pilot’s warm nose. He combs the fingers of his bloodless hand through the pilot’s soft, damp hair.</p><p>”I’ll take you to see Russia in winter! You’ll get to go to a beach! You’ll...”</p><p>Their bodies are warm and sticky and… Valeri pauses and looks at the pilot who’s looking back, flustered and catching his breath.</p><p>”No, I meant… What happened to me, comrade? It was like a take-off but I didn’t leave.”</p><p> </p><p>”Oh… Oh Dove. Well, see the human nervous system can have all sorts of responses to stimulus... There are reported cases of patients losing their sight temporarily because of pain. Ejaculating due to unusual level of stimulation is a perfectly normal...”</p><p>”Ejaculating? That’s what it’s called?” The pilot’s eyes are bright like light glowing through ice, and he looks curious and unashamed. Valeri has to swallow hard before answering.</p><p>”Well… The release of fluid is called ejaculation. The sensation is called peak of pleasure, but in truth it’s just a peak of nervous stimulation. It can happen on it’s own, even while you’re asleep. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what you’ve been told. Is this… is this something you haven’t been educated about, Dove?”</p><p>”I think I’ve heard different words for it. I didn’t know… I didn’t know it can be nice. I don’t think the words I’ve heard are very good”, the pilot mutters. Valeri steadies his breath and fondles his Dove’s soft hair.</p><p>”It’s supposed to be a lovely thing, Dove. You deserve to have better words, to know yourself in full. Sensuality is your own, intimate, lovely thing. Something you can choose to do when you want to.”</p><p>”Do <em>you</em> do it, comrade?”</p><p>”Well… most people do at least something sensual. There are all sorts of superstitions about it, but it’s really a very natural thing. You won’t go blind or have hair growing from your palms or whatever they want you to believe. You’re okay, you’ve done nothing wrong. How do you feel, Dove?”</p><p>”Very… tired.”</p><p>”That’s all right, Dove. You can rest all you want now. You still need medical attention, but you’ll get better, just lie back and let me know if you need something, okay?”</p><p>”Will you be here?” The pilot mutters. He’s visibly struggling against exhaustion, eyes fluttering shut between words.</p><p>”Yes, Dove. Watching over you. Trust me, I’m a professional.”</p><p>”A professional in...”</p><p>”Watching you. Can I check and tend your injuries while you rest, Dove?”</p><p>”Okay”, the pilot murmurs against Valeri’s neck.</p><p>”Please don’t leave, comrade.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Star Tissue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Star Tissue</h1><p> </p><p>Usually the loudmouth sergeant is everywhere, but now that Alan is looking for him, Walter is gone from the face of the Earth as if he never was there in the first place. The silent dread wraps ever tighter as the medic opens door after door after door, just to find darkness and curious gazes.</p><p>Walter’s neurotic fellow, Jones, sits on his bunk, running his scrubbed hands along a rosary, but he hasn’t seen the man either.</p><p>The Irish boy, who’s read his adventure paperbacks to dog ears and lends them to anyone who asks, seems to have gotten sick. He’s vomiting at the side gate, face greenish pale, but his big, bald friend’s got him already, patting the boy’s back and wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.</p><p>”My pal O’Reilly had a bit of a rowdy night, sir. I’d appreciate it if you kept this between us, he’s just new to the spirits. I’ll take him to bed, good luck for finding the Sarge!”</p><p>Alan’s about to go get a flashlight and head outside nevertheless as he notices a smudge of blood on a door handle in a quiet corridor. He’s almost certain he’s tried the door already, but does so again, and while doing so, notices the door doesn’t even have an engraved key hole like the ones locked away to protect the antique furniture.</p><p>”Walter? Sergeant Walter?” Alan calls out, knocking the door, but receives no answer. He pushes his ear against the wood and listens, holding his breath. Water drips somewhere behind the door. Alan knocks again.</p><p>”Sergeant Walter, sir, this is the annoying tea drinker medic! Please open the door, I know you are there!”</p><p>Still no answer, but wet cloth is shifting, and there is a sound, like a muffled sigh. Alan knocks again, steadying his breathing.</p><p>”Sergeant Walter, sir, I’m concerned for your well-being. Please unlock the door now.”</p><p>Perhaps it’s his mind, summoning memories from the past, but the smell of injury and hurt hangs at the edge of Alan’s perception.</p><p>”Sir, unless you unlock the door, I will politely use an axe to let myself in! Please let us do this without a scene or damage to the building!”</p><p>”Don’t yell”, a quiet, suffocated voice murmurs.</p><p>”I’ll do it, just… keep quiet.”</p><p>”Of course, sir. I promise full confidentiality once the door is open, I am only asking as your medic and a human striving for decency.”</p><p>After a while, a shuffle of wet cloth and a screech of chair legs against the floor. Sergeant Walter is taking wet, raspy breaths behind the door.</p><p>”It’s okay, please let me in”, Alan says quietly, and after a while, the man does. The door opens just enough to let the medic in, and the sergeant slams it back shut after him.</p><p>The sergeant’s eyes are red and glassed over. He is shivering, clothes dripping dirty water, and he’s trying to cover the bloodied front of his trousers with his hands.</p><p>”You… really shouldn’t have come. Who sent you?” He mutters, stumbling backwards towards a half-open bathroom door. He’s limping, shaking in his attempt to keep up a stern posture.</p><p>Alan lifts his hands up into clear view and steps slowly forward.</p><p>”The pilot told me you were hurt, sir. I mean no harm, please let me see.”</p><p>”He… he told you? You saw him?”</p><p>”I saw him. He’s with the Russian. Asked I’d come see you.” Alan steps slowly closer and stops in front of the shivering man.</p><p>"Think... he's going to make it?"</p><p>"Seemed lively to me, sir, and he's in good hands. Please let me see, sergeant Walter. Your medical is long overdue anyway. You can consider this your check-up.”</p><p>The sergeant’s head moves almost undetectably. A microscopic nod. His eyes are glistening feverishly, perhaps fighting against tears. He goes stiff when the medic closes the distance between them and puts an arm around him.</p><p>”All right. Come on, come here, let’s get you dried up”, Alan tells him and guides the man to sit on the edge of the bed. The sergeant comes along stiffly, like a horse walked to an unknown place, but lets himself be guided on anyway. The medic grabs a blanket and wraps the man in it, wet clothes and all.</p><p>”I didn’t mean for this to happen”, the sergeant mutters.</p><p>"Didn't mean for any of them to die. The pilot with the forest-green eyes... He thought I was going to help him. He thanked me. He..."</p><p>Alan wraps his arms around the sergeant and holds him when he breaks down crying.</p><p>"I don't know why I did it... I don't know why I did any of it, I'm not like that. The paratrooper... He kept calling me 'brother', kept telling me it wasn't too late for me to stop and that he saw I was a good man... I haven't been a good man since Africa, and not even then…"</p><p>"That sounds like a lot to keep in, sir", Alan says softly as the man weeps, holding his bloodied hands over his face.</p><p>
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</p><p>"I thought the bayonet maybe would be enough... I thought maybe we could end there and... I don't know how I was so childish, it never ends there, I just..."</p><p>"He's got you roped in something deep, hasn't he, sir? █████?" The medic says, rubbing slow circles across the sergeant's back as he tenses and glances around in rising panic.</p><p>"He sent you? No... no, please leave, please go right now... you have to!"</p><p>"Shh... Not him, sir. He doesn't probably even know I was looking for you. I just... guessed something was not right there. But I knew I couldn't make you tell about it before you were ready. I've long awaited you'd make an appointment, sir."</p><p>The American takes a long while to just cry, and Alan holds him, emitting a low, calming hum as sobs shudder the sergeant’s body.</p><p>”I can never go back to my mom… No-one should touch me, all this is my own damn fault, I... I’d off myself if I wasn’t such a coward...”</p><p>”I don’t think you’re a coward, sir. I think… You tell me if this sounds like crazy rambling, sir, but I’ve had the feeling since Africa you, and lately several of your friends too, have been lead into a tailored trap. Just like a game of poker, rigged from the start, and you’ve been lured so far because there’s not a cowardly bone in your body, you’re a risk-taker troublemaker, sir. I… I even tried looking into it.”</p><p>The sergeant lifts his head slowly and blinks, eyes sore and raw from crying.</p><p>”Looking into…?”</p><p>”Looking into █████, sir… You may not believe me but… There is an aura of unease, a gut feeling I just can’t shake… So I looked into him. Thought maybe he’s got a record of some sort, maybe… well, long story short, sir, I found nothing. Not a thing. And that did not comfort me a single inch, but I knew I couldn’t come to you or the higher command or anyone, really, if I didn’t have something concrete. Now I wish I’d tried, sir. I’m really sorry.”</p><p>”I don’t think it’d have worked”, the sergeant mutters, through the tears and gritted teeth. A bitter grimace ghosts on his face and he shakes his head.</p><p>”… think I had to see it myself.”</p><p>
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</p><p>”Would you let me help you wash up and change, sir?”</p><p>”… not really.”</p><p>”And if it’s not a choice? Will you fight me or…?”</p><p>”You don’t want to see this”, the sergeant mutters quietly, shrinking into a shivering bundle inside the blanket.</p><p>”Just go and let me sleep it off… I need to be back in shape in the morning, I just need a mug of booze and a night’s sleep.”</p><p>Alan shakes his head.</p><p>”I apologize for being this brief, sir, but you won’t get back in shape with a plan like that, you’ll get wound fever. Having opinions or dramatic reactions to whatever it is is not part of my duty. I may be a shell-shocked pacifist pansy, as I remember you paraphrasing it not too long ago, sir, but I’ve never stepped away from a live patient and given up. I’ll just do what is absolutely necessary, and remain silent if that’s what you need.”</p><p>”… hell with it and you tea-drinkers.. Do what you must”, the sergeant sighs, lowering his head on the medic’s shoulder.</p><p>
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</p><p>The sergeant can’t stop shivering when Alan emerges from the bathroom with a vat and a washcloth. His jaw is clenched tight to stop his teeth from clattering and his knuckles are white from squeezing the blanket. Alan gives him a little nod.</p><p>”Things will be all right, sir. Not right away, but they will. Can I help you with the clothes, sir?”</p><p>Slowly, the American nods. He doesn’t seem to be able to bring himself to undress, so Alan steps forward slowly and gives him a gloomy little smile.</p><p>”You gotta excuse my hands, sir, I had to take the gloves off. My brother used to call me Froggie when we were children, because of my cold, sticky fingers. I also had a strange fascination with gross critters of all kinds.”</p><p>The sergeant doesn’t smile back, hardly even moves to acknowledge the medic, but the cloudy veil over his eyes is briefly lifted and he looks Alan in the eye as if giving permission. With slow movements, Alan peels the blanket open and begins to unbutton the man’s wet shirt. The raw skin underneath, scar over scar, almost makes him pause, but the feral panic in the sergeant’s eyes tells him to continue.</p><p>”Frogs, lizards, fish, bugs and larvae… Once I kept a mouse from the stalls in my room until my mother found it and threw it in the garden.”</p><p>The man is on the verge of full-blown panic, breathing shallow and eye whites gleaming like those of a horse about to bolt. Alan continues opening the buttons, chatting up more mundane nonsense in a low, kind tone, ignoring the irritated, red flesh underneath the cloth.</p><p>”I… This is nothing. My own damn fault… Just…”</p><p>”It’s not any of my business, sir, unless you want to tell about it. It’s the present I’m tasked to deal with.”</p><p>The sergeant looks at him for a while, then mutters thanks through tight, colourless lips. Alan nods, peeling the soaked shirt off the man’s body. A couple of sores still look fresh and irritated, the one on the sergeant’s shoulder blackened and gleaming with interstitial fluid.</p><p>”The washing may sting, sir. That okay to you?”</p><p>”Do I look like I care?"</p><p>Alan sighs and wets the washcloth. The man looks like he has not cared for years, or perhaps cared all too much. His body, still agile and young and beautiful like a statue of old, is a testament to a pain larger than what’s carved on it. Hidden under a shirt and a false smile, much like his own.</p><p>”Maybe you don’t yet, but one day you might. And I do.”</p><p>"I... I thought I wanted to do all that shit", the sergeant mutters, gaze cast down and a tear rolling down his cheek, as the medic begins washing him.</p><p>"I thought... it would make me somehow more of a man... I..."</p><p>"He framed it like that to you, sir?"</p><p>"I should have known better... I... I don't think you should be here. You should leave. If he comes back... Please."</p><p>Alan shakes his head, rubbing the man's cold skin with a washcloth until it turns pink.</p><p>"I will, sir... with one condition. You come up to my quarters and allow me to medicate you, make you tea and treat your wounds."</p><p>The American goes pale, cheeks red with shame, shaking his head.</p><p>"You shouldn't have to touch, all this filth... and what if he comes looking for me?"</p><p>"It's exactly why I have to, sir. You are in the risk of a serious inflammation, one that won't easily go unnoticed and may leave you with long term consequences... and that is not to mention my quarters are perfect for barricading the entry and staying out of sight."</p><p>The sergeant lifts his gaze slowly. His eyes are gleaming in feverish desperation.</p><p>"But... It's a disgusting mess. I... I tried to wash but couldn't make myself do it... I..."</p><p>"I have a spare bed, sir. You'll wake up more refreshed after sleeping in a safe place.”</p><p>"I... I guess, as long as no-one finds out. He... told me to stay in my own quarters."</p><p>"No-one will find out, sir", Alan says.</p><p>He washes the man's side thoroughly, rubbing on a faint, curved stain until the sergeant pats his hand away.</p><p>"It won't come off, It's a birthmark... a cruel fucking joke if you ask me", the sergeant mutters.</p><p>"It is? How so?" The medic leans closer, inspecting the marking. It's indeed a birthmark, a tan horseshoe shape on the man's ribs.</p><p>"Looks like a very lucky mark to me, sir. Had it since birth?"</p><p>The American nods, grimacing.</p><p>"That's the cruel joke part. There was not a thing lucky about my birth, no matter what my mom says... Would have been better if I hadn't been born at all. And now..."</p><p>"I dare to doubt that, sir. What is she like?"</p><p>"Well... Madly brave. Hot-headed. Insufferably just... I... please don't tell anyone but... I've made her file disappear after she was arrested for protesting... She…"</p><p>"...sounds just like your mother, sir. Loudmouth troublemakers in two generations."</p><p>The sergeant hunches over and shrinks into a shivering bundle.</p><p>"She'll never forgive me... I can't write to her any more, I just can't... I hardly did, anyway, not in months. He wanted to read my letters, and... He didn't say what I could or couldn't say but it just... felt wrong, so I only write empty platitudes and white lies now."</p><p>The medic hums, grazing his thumb lightly over the horseshoe mark.</p><p>”Perhaps the lucky part has not begun yet, sir. Perhaps you’re like St. Dunstan and must withstand an encounter with the Devil first. Trust me, sir, when I say that I’ve spent half my life in the stables and a horseshoe never brought me anything but luck… Besides perhaps this one time, when a mean-spirited pony kicked my arse so hard I missed a race. But enough about my ass… I’d love to help you write to your mother some day, sir. I can take the letter forward discreetly if you want me to.”</p><p>The American grabs Alan’s hand and squeezes it for a moment, knuckles gleaming with a thick web of scarification.</p><p>”Thanks. I don’t think I will, but… thanks.”</p><p>Alan studies the hand for a moment, not saying anything, but the stiffness in the sergeant’s posture tells he’s noticed nevertheless.</p><p>“Boxing without gloves much, sir?”</p><p>The sergeant lets out a teary little laughter, squeezing the medic’s hand again.</p><p>“I’m a fucking local gloveless wall boxing champion. Never floored my opponent, though.”</p><p>The sergeant lets Alan wash him, wincing like burned every time the medic brushes over a fresh sore, but tightening his ashen lips to not let a cry out.</p><p>"We need to change your trousers and wash the rest, sir", Alan says softly. The man crumbles like a sandcastle, bursting into tears behind his hands.</p><p>"No... Please, no... You... I can't", he sobs, shivering in pain and nausea.</p><p>"He... God, I can't make myself say it."</p><p>The medic wraps his arm around the man's shoulder.</p><p>"Please tell me, sir. It's just the two of us, I promise to do my best to help."</p><p>The sergeant glances at Alan, face devoid of all colour.</p><p>"I think he screwed me up", he breathes, turning his face away in shame.</p><p>"I think I'm hurt..." He goes silent, tears streaming down and quiet sobs shaking his body.</p><p>"Hey, sir, it's okay... shh, it's okay, thanks for telling me."</p><p>The sergeant doesn't respond or turn his gaze back, curling into a defensive position instead and whining quietly.</p><p>"Hey, it's okay... you're safe, I'll help you, sir..." The medic quickly looks around and locates the American's belongings.</p><p>"Let's just get you dressed up and leave, okay? You don't have to say any more, let's just get the hell out of here and go somewhere safer."</p><p>The American doesn't respond, but Alan just about sees a weak nod and hurries to take out clean clothes for him. The sergeant allows him to pull a dry shirt on him, but becomes ghastly pale when the medic shows him a dry pair of briefs and trousers.</p><p>"Just so no-one has questions, sir. Please let me."</p><p>Slowly, the sergeant nods and lets himself be helped up.</p><p>"... please don't look", the sergeant mutters as he drops his trousers reluctantly, but it's too late. Alan sees the washed-off blood, as well as the fresh trail of crimson dripping down his thigh. The sergeant's hand grasps around Alan's wrist desperately.</p><p>"Please... don't tell anyone."</p><p>"I won't, sir. Of course not. This is no-ones business but yours, unless you want it to be."</p><p>The medic helps him sit back down and gives him dry clothes to put on, while kicking the bloody clothes under the bed without a word.</p><p>The American's feet stumble and he limps in a dazed, uncoordinated manner, and Alan wraps his arm tighter around him. The sergeant is swaying like drunk and shivering like a sick animal.</p><p>"It's warmer in my quarters", the medic tells softly.</p><p>The sergeant does not respond, but his gaze becomes more animated for a second. Alan tries to adjust the sheet better around the man, more to bring comfort than warmth. In the state he's in, tensed up and breathing shallowly through his mouth, warming him up with a thin sheet of cloth is hardly an improvement.</p><p>"Let's make tea, sir", the medic suggests, guiding the sergeant to narrow stairs hidden behind a door</p><p>"Hot tea and a warm blanket ought to make you feel better. A medical splash of liquor too, if you want. Just a splash, though, I'm no bartender."</p><p>The sergeant climbs the stairs clumsily, clinging to Alan's arm and letting himself be lead forward.</p><p>The darkness ahead is warm and smells peaceful, furniture under their cloth veils, old books and faint smoke from a fireplace. A lot of the stronghold's original furniture is here, safe from the restless hands and dirty boots of the soldiers who stomp through the lower floors.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Alan guides them through a door, small enough they must bow their heads as they enter, and pushes a chair under the doorknob.</p><p>A dim ring of oil lamp light separates a cozy, inhabited nook of the attic from the darkness: the medic has set up a bed and a tea brewing spot near the ancient fireplace.</p><p>"A nice hideout", the sergeant mutters.</p><p>"I didn't even know there were rooms here."</p><p>"Neither did most others", Alan says, leading the American gently towards the bed.</p><p>"Please, have another blanket, sir, you must be cold."</p><p>As soon as the American is seated, he falls on his side, sighing and going limp like a rag doll.</p><p>"Your bed is too soft for a soldier", he mutters against the medic's pillow.</p><p>"I'm sure it is. Discomfort must be your middle name, sir", Alan hums, pulling a thick wool blanket over the man's shivering body.</p><p>"Unfortunately I don't have any rancid coffee or stale bread at hand so you'll have to do with my sweet, British pansy tea and fresh pastries from the town."</p><p>"You don't... I guess that will do", the sergeant mutters, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. The medic turns around to light a gas burner for the kettle.</p><p>"I never thought I'd... that I'd do anything like that. I always tried to do the right thing, to... be a real patriot, to be a good son, a good friend, good at sports, a good man... But seems like the harder I try, the harder I fail", the American says suddenly with a wet, muffled voice.</p><p>"I tried taking girls dancing but... nothing ever came of that. Perhaps I just really hate dancing, you know?"</p><p>“Perhaps, sir. Perhaps you should try something else instead. Have you ever tried riding?”</p><p>“I just want to be normal”, the American mutters.</p><p>“I just wish to be normal and go home. When do you think I’ll get back to how I was?”</p><p>“You’ll never go back exactly as you were, sir. No-one in this damned war will. But you’ll get better, I’m sure of that much. How normal were you planning to become, sir? An insufferable loudmouth troublemaker?”</p><p>The medic sits down on the bed, the tea brewing quietly, and pets the sergeant’s hair comfortingly.</p><p>“We’ll make one heck of a troublemaker of you yet, sir.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The tea is strong and sweet and the pastries are so fragile flakes of sugary snow falls down on their laps as Alan holds the shivering sergeant beside himself, wrapped in blankets.</p><p>“You’re still going to take a look at me, aren’t you?” The sergeant asks, voice cracking.</p><p>“It’s literally my job, sir”, the medic says softly, raising a teacup to the man’s cracked lips, and flashes him a melancholic smile.</p><p>“I was thinking of starting a club, sir. Might I interest you in joining?”</p><p>“What’s the club about?” The sergeant looks dazed, like awoken to the conversation from deep thoughts or a dark dream.</p><p>“A book club for wayward boys, starting tomorrow at 8 p.m. in my hideout. We’ll be reading...” Alan picks up a paperback book from the floor.</p><p>“O’Reilly’s corny pirate adventure books. Tea and snacks are on me. What do you say, sir?”</p><p>“… what do you mean?”</p><p>The medic takes a deep breath, puts the teacup away and takes the American’s hand to shake it.</p><p>“I’m Alan Northorpe, I’m using heroine from the Army supply, I have sort of lost control, and I’d like to change my ways. You with me, sir?”</p><p>The sergeant goes dead silent for a while, realization creeping onto his face. Then he slowly squeezes the hand back and shakes it.</p><p>“Laurie Walter. I’m tangled in a mess from which I can’t untangle myself from, and I have sort of lost control too. We’ll see about the meeting, but… thanks, Alan.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"You comfortable in there, Laurie?"</p><p>Comfortable might be a stretch, but the medic has done his best to ensure the man is not too badly uncomfortable at least. Laurie's quivering legs dangle from the desk and he looks back at Alan with huge, wet eyes gleaming in the ghastly pale face. He's laid to a half lying position, squeezing the blankets he's wrapped in, white-knuckled and breathing too fast.</p><p>"I'll give you morphine if this is too much", Alan tells him softly.</p><p>"But I'd rather not. It might not make you feel too good otherwise, sir."</p><p>"I don't need it, I can handle this", Laurie whispers, jaw clenching so tight it must hurt.</p><p>"Just do it quick."</p><p>The second Alan puts his hand on the sergeant's thigh, goosebumps and cold sweat spread across the shivering skin.</p><p>"You okay, Laurie?"</p><p>"Just do it!"</p><p>"Okay, sir... Please just relax and let me see." The medic says softly, taking his hand to Laurie's bleeding backside.</p><p>"Just take a good, deep breath..."</p><p>Even before the fingers touch the man's skin, all colour drains from his face and his eyes squeeze shut, breath stalling for a moment. When Alan touches the man's orifice, sticky with blood, a muffled, pained wail escapes from between the man's clenched jaws and he clasps his muscles tighter.</p><p>"Shhh, sir.... Laurie, please let me see. Just breathe."</p><p>"Do it", the man cries, tears streaming down his cheeks.</p><p>"Just do it, Alan, I don't care."</p><p>With as little force as he can, the medic pushes two fingers inside to evaluate the damage. The American slaps his palm onto his mouth to muffle a scream. His muscles contract and his eyes roll back but he doesn't try to move away, paralyzed by pain or maybe fear. Alan tries to feel around as carefully as he can, but each movement drags a new muffled cry from him.</p><p>When Alan pulls his fingers out, a string of coagulating blood follows like a ribbon. The sergeant takes a shaky breath and starts sobbing.</p><p>"He ruined me, didn't he?"</p><p>"Laurie, sir... hey, it's okay, it's okay... You are not ruined, you just need some care...."</p><p>Laurie grabs the medic's arm and looks him in the eye.</p><p>"Please, don't lie... How bad is it? Will I ever be a full man again?"</p><p>The medic sets his hand down and squeezes it softly.</p><p>"You already are, sir, you already are.. And I'm not lying, you'll surely heal if treated properly... but you're not going to like this."</p><p>"What is it?" Laurie whimpers, digging his nails into his wet cheeks.</p><p>"Please don't tell me I can't control my... my..."</p><p>Alan takes his hands and firmly sets them down.</p><p>"Shh... No, sir, please listen. You'll get back to full health as long as you'll receive the right care... But you need to be cleaned and stitched, your channel is torn and you'll get very sick otherwise. And you need to come back for treatment."</p><p>"When?" The American is so pale the shadows around his eyes are dark like bruises.</p><p>"Every day, sir. Until you are better."</p><p>“You got to be kidding me. No. No! No way someone’s going to touch this mess every day, that ain’t right! Just tell me what to do!” Laurie shakes his head with panicked frenzy, holding in to the medic’s hands.</p><p>“… So that you can ignore my advice better, sir? Would you come back if you start bleeding again? If you get temperature? If you rip a stitch?”</p><p>“...yes?”</p><p>“And for real…?”</p><p>“Probably not”, Laurie sighs.</p><p>“I’ll be honest with you, sir. If you won’t come back regularly, you’re in the risk of a serious infection and a dirty wound that won’t heal properly. You’ll start to avoid food and bodily functions, and get more unwell, not less. Let me help. Please, Laurie.”</p><p>“I...” the American turns his face away.</p><p>“I don’t care… Do whatever, I just don’t care any more...” He begins to weep, covering his face with his hands again.</p><p>“Will you let me stitch you up, sir?”</p><p>“Whatever… whatever you want… I just want everything to be over.”</p><p>“Laurie… It will be done soon, and then we can just rest. From tomorrow on, we’ll make sure to medicate you just right beforehand, and you’ll feel better soon enough. I’ll clean and stitch you up now, just let me know if you need a breather, okay?”</p><p>“Yeah, just do it, I can handle it”, the sergeant whispers wetly, lips hidden behind his trembling hands.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Laurie can not handle it. At least, not well. The second Alan touches the cloth, damp with disinfectant, against his quivering orifice, Laurie starts whimpering in broken, little gasps, squeezing his palm over his mouth to muffle the sound. His legs would close together if Alan wasn’t standing between them, shushing the sergeant softly and working as fast and gently as he can.</p><p>“Shhh… Just a little bit more, Laurie, you’re doing great.”</p><p>“I’m not, though, I’m not… I’m a coward and a crybaby”, the man wails, breath hitching and muscles clenching ever tighter.</p><p>“Evidently untrue, sir. I saw you shirtless. Please just try to breathe and relax, okay? I’ll need enough space to do the stitching.”</p><p>“Okay”, Laurie sobs, but his stiff body barely gets any looser.</p><p>“Laurie… I’m sorry, but you’ll have to unclench your muscles, you’re hurting yourself.”</p><p>“Okay”, the sergeant mutters. He sighs wetly, turns his face away in shame and forces himself to go completely slack. Only the muffled sobs under his palm confirm he’s still conscious.</p><p>Once the medic manoeuvers his fingers inside and glides the needle through for the first time, Laurie breaks into crying wordlessly.</p><p>Alan continues as fast as he can while remaining gentle, for Laurie seems to be reaching his breaking point. He’s crying and praying under his breath, no more responding to Alan’s attempts to console him.</p><p>“Shh, just a little bit more, Laurie, you’ll be okay...”</p><p>Alan wishes the man would go unconscious. He’s trying so hard not to scream, calling for God and his mother between the cries, but his body is too paralyzed by fear and pain to move.</p><p>“Just two more, sir… It’s almost over, shh...”</p><p>"Mamma, mamma… Portatemi via da tutta questa morte…" Laurie cries, squeezing his palm over his mouth to say no more.</p><p>Blood is still dripping down Alan’s hand as he completes the last sutures, but it’s mere residue now, setting as the stitches and the resting position take effect.</p><p>“Laurie, hey... Laurie...” Alan hastily wipes his hands on the disinfectant rag and hurries to take the man’s hand off his teary face and stroke his cheek.</p><p>“It’s done, it’s all okay, let me get you...”</p><p>Laurie’s eyes flutter half-open and he almost nods, taking a long, shaky breath.</p><p>“It’s over?”</p><p>“It’s over, Laurie. Come here...” Alan reaches out and gathers the boneless sergeant in a hug.</p><p>“It’s done, you’re going to be just fine… Let me help, okay?”</p><p>Laurie mutters in agreement, and Alan moves to carefully pick him up and carry his limp body to bed.</p><p>“The hell, Northorpe?! You can do that?” The sergeant exclaims, a flash of light returning to his eyes for a moment.</p><p>“It’s part of my secret pacifist pansy skill set, sir”, Alan says warmly and sets the man down onto the soft mattress, tucking him under heavy blankets.</p><p>“Didn’t know you had Italian in your back pocket either, sir.”</p><p>“Wait, I...” Laurie grabs the medic’s hand and squeezes.</p><p>“It’s not what you think, I’m an American, I swear, I...”</p><p>“Didn’t think otherwise, Laurie. It’s okay, I’m sure you’ll tell later if you feel like it.” Alan sets the man’s hand down gently and strokes it.</p><p>“You need to rest, Laurie. Would you mind if I set up a bed here on the floor?”</p><p>“I’d like that, Alan… I’d like that...” Laurie mutters, head lulling to the side on the too soft pillows.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“No… No!”</p><p>Alan wakes to the panicked cries a second before the American falls onto him in the dead of night.</p><p>“No more! Stop, stop, stop...” Laurie wails, squirming and crying. Alan quickly sits up, taking a firm hold of the man’s hands and pulling him into a hug.</p><p>“Laurie, sir, it’s me… It’s just me, you are safe.”</p><p>Laurie goes quiet and stares at the medic, a spark of recognition lighting up slowly.</p><p>“… it’s.. over?”</p><p>“It’s over, Laurie… It’s over, you’re safe.”</p><p>“I thought… the pain… I thought it was still going on, I… please don’t let them get back to me.”</p><p>“Laurie, sir, come here...” Alan lifts the covers and the man crawls shakily next to him, pressing his wet face against Alan’s shirt.</p><p>“Please don’t tell anyone”, Laurie whispers.</p><p>“Of course not. This stays between club members only.”, Alan whispers back and wraps his arm around the man.</p><p>“Let’s go back to sleep, Laurie.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Tidal Rust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Tidal Rust</h1><p> </p><p>The clouds are so thick barely any sunlight passes through. Ludger flies blind, relying only on his craft and the familiar instinct guiding him forward. His engines hum and he’s safe, safe among the heavy blanket of clouds. Not even the radio crackles. He breathes deep and glides onward, breaching out of a cloud bank into the golden forest of sun rays.</p><p>“Oh, hello there, comrade.”</p><p>A gentle hand brushes along Ludger’s temple and shadows his eyes from the light.</p><p>“...oh.”</p><p>“Shh, you’re safe, just stay down, okay?”</p><p>“...what?”</p><p>It’s so warm and soft the pilot can barely think. There’s cloud fluff between his fingers and tendrils of the sun around his arms and he’s buried, buried five thousand meters high.</p><p>“Ludger, Dove, please don’t touch the bandages. I’ve stopped the bleeding, they’re good, you just have to calm down.”</p><p>A hand wraps around Ludger’s fingers and pauses them softly.</p><p>“Shh, just like that… thank you, Dove.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a little snap, and the sun fades. In the twilight, Ludger opens his eyes and sees Valeri leaning towards him.</p><p>“Welcome back, comrade. You are safe, your injuries have been taken care of. Just please, tell me if you need something so I can help, okay?”</p><p>Ludger blinks slowly, taking in the damp signals that are coming in from all over his body. It’s a warm weariness, the ache of rest after days of hard exercise.</p><p>“… drink? … and Pervitin? ...please?”</p><p>Valeri emits a soft, little laugh and brushes tangled hairs off Ludger’s face.</p><p>“Water you can have right away, but it’s night time and you still require rest. You can have your medicine in the morning, Dove.”</p><p>“Okay...”, Ludger mutters, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hand. Rest. Sleep. <em>Yes</em>.</p><p>“Come here, let me help you”, Valeri whispers softly, grabbing him under the arms and lifting him to a half, sitting position against the pillows. Ludger allows himself to be handled, keeping his hands down as he’s been told. It’s almost like in the Professor’s care… except the Professor never came to bed with him. Who knows if the Professor ever goes to bed at all.</p><p>“Here. Carefully, okay?” Valeri brings a teacup onto Ludger’s lips and waits until he takes a sip of water. The cup leaves too soon, and Ludger sighs.</p><p>“You’ll get more. Just take it easy, we don’t want you to feel sick again, Dove.”</p><p>Ludger shakes his head, licking his lips.</p><p>“You weren’t that careful before, comrade. Why begin now?”</p><p>Valeri’s cheeks get a red hue and he averts his gaze, bringing the cup back.</p><p>“Fair enough”, he mutters, and Ludger fills his mouth with the sweet, cool water with pleasure.</p><p>He’s slurping, drinking too fast and water drips down his chin and onto his feverish skin like rain from heavens, and when the cup’s empty, he asks for another one.</p><p>“Now, now, Dove… After a while, okay? Let it settle for a moment.”</p><p>There is a cool surge inside, waves hitting against his sore throat, and so he nods, breathing slowly through his nose to calm down his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“The cuts are healing well.” Valeri says softly, brushing his fingers against the bandaged arm.</p><p>“Unusually well, even. Is there… is there a chance someone ever mentioned anything about your physiology being unusual, Ludger? A doctor, maybe, or a scientist?”</p><p>Yes. Of course. Comrade Valeri’s big mission. It’s not ruined after all. A smile creeps onto Ludger’s lips and he nods.</p><p>“Yes. Yes, of course, the Professor says so. And the scientists. I’ve seen, on the table, and on the field, in a wreck. No machines though. No wires. Just blood and gore, but it’s different. Anomalous. Freak of nature. From the sarcophagus.”</p><p>Valeri’s brow rises curiously and he nods, but doesn’t take notes. His delicate fingers trace Ludger’s cheek, like mapping him in great detail. Perhaps he is taking notes.</p><p>“So you know of it? Very good. Perhaps you can help me learn more then, Dove. Can I ask you something?”</p><p>Nodding makes the water splash inside, makes him want to gag, but Ludger can’t stop nodding, smile spreading wider.</p><p>“Affirmative.”</p><p>Yes. Help comrade Valeri learn more about him. Questions. The scientists back in the base would tell him to get onto the table. Get in the machine. Get in the other machine. Hold still. Do not breathe. Do not scream. Turn around.</p><p>“Dove?” Valeri’s brow furrows. The question. Yes.</p><p>“Have you ever seen an X-ray of your body?”</p><p>“It tickles”, Ludger breathes, closing his eyes and remembering the bubbling heat. Like dry rain. Like sparkling water, but warmer.</p><p>“What was that, Dove?”</p><p>“They tickle, the rays. Like bubbles. But if it goes on for long, it gets hotter, until it burns. Like the Sun.”</p><p>“They keep you exposed to X-rays for lengths of time?” Valeri exclaims, and suddenly his expression is less soft. Ludger hurries to shake his head until the water almost rises back to his mouth.</p><p>“It’s not bad, the Professor doesn’t mean bad with it. It helps, comrade! My heart got better!”</p><p>“Okay, Dove… Okay, I get it. The Professor doesn’t mean to hurt you. Just help. What does this ‘treatment’ do?”</p><p>Despite Valeri’s shushing and gentle pressure against his chest, Ludger hauls himself to a sitting position and shakes his head.</p><p>“My lips stopped turning blue, comrade. My pulse improved, the Professor let me hear for myself! And after the critical threshold, he kept me under the rays every day and rubbed honey to my gums and kept me in a drip until I could ingest fluids again. The Professor doesn’t hurt me, only helps!”</p><p>“Shh, Dove...” Valeri wraps an arm around Ludger and pulls him against himself, fondling his back calmingly.</p><p>“Sorry I didn’t take your word for it. Can you perhaps… tell me more about this ‘critical threshold’, Dove? You said you couldn’t ingest anything for a while?”</p><p>Ludger blinks.</p><p>“The… You know, the… My insides.” He rubs his aching stomach, searching for a spark of recognition in Valeri’s eyes.</p><p>“There was a lot of blood, and guts, and gore, and a high fever, and a whole big mess, and… Afterwards I got sick less. The critical threshold?”</p><p>Valeri takes a deep breath, and then another. Then he smiles shakily.</p><p>“This is… very new. Thank you, Dove. I was… hmm, I was wondering about that. Are you aware that your internal organs are quite unique?”</p><p>Ludger nods, smiling back now that comrade Valeri doesn’t look so stern any more.</p><p>“You’d see if you cut me open, like you said. No tubes or wires or machines, just… just me. You could put me under the rays afterwards, watch me heal back up. I’ll try hard to not die, comrade, so you can see.”</p><p>“Dove… Ludger, no. No. Your only task right now is to rest and get better, okay? I can have an X-ray taken later to see the details. What matters now is that your unique features have proven to be life-saving.” Valeri says softly, stroking Ludger’s abused abdomen.</p><p>“There’s no womb, right? Please?!”, Ludger gasps, barely audibly.</p><p>“What? No. Hey, Dove… hey, shh… breathe, you’re okay, shh...” Valeri wraps his arms around the man’s shivering body and pulls him close. He has a soft shirt on, smelling of fresh linens and something sweet, but anxiety makes Ludger’s stomach tighten and his throat spasm.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no...” Ludger gestures to Valeri, eyes watering, and covers his mouth with his bandaged hand.</p><p>“Oh...” Valeri lets go and reaches for something, but it’s too late. A surge of bloody water drips out through Ludger’s fingers and onto the blanket and his stomach cramps harder.</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay, shh…. Just relax and let it come out”, Valeri whispers and rubs his back. Another surge comes out and rains onto metal. There’s an enamelled vat. But he can’t breathe. Ludger can’t breathe. His throat burns like there was a shrapnel and more water and blood comes out and his fingertips dig into the soft skin of his neck.</p><p>“Is your airway blocked?”</p><p>Ludger nods, eyes wide. He’ll choke. He’ll choke and die. No, not now. Not now!</p><p>“Lean forward and cough hard for me, okay? I’ll slap your back, please don’t be alarmed.”</p><p>Ludger nods, tears dripping down his cheeks and blood dripping down his chin, trying to cough through his blocked throat. Valeri’s palm strikes him between the shoulder blades, once, twice… The shrapnel dislodges. He motions Valeri to stop.</p><p>“Can you breathe?”</p><p>Yes. Yes. Ludger nods furiously, blood dripping from his nose. Soon.</p><p>Valeri stares in wonder and terror as Ludger’s tongue slithers around and into the pilot's own throat and wraps around the harsh metal like a tentacle. The corroded edges scrape and draw blood, but Ludger sighs in relief as the piece comes out, dangling from the tip of his long, crimson tongue. It is, or was, his Knight’s Cross…</p><p>“Shit… You alright, Ludger?”</p><p>“A… Affirmative”, Ludger wheezes, dropping the cross into the vat and spitting blood and bile and saliva.</p><p>“What is this, Dove?”</p><p>The piece of metal in Valeri’s fingers is corroded, twisted almost beyond recognition, jagged edges and porous, filthy mass where the shiny silver used to be. The swastika on the back is no more, an ulcer-like hole in the middle dripping blood like a ravenous maw.</p><p>“It’s.. it was my cross. They wanted me to kiss it. I said no.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s…” Valeri eyes the piece and then Ludger carefully.</p><p>“You knew it wouldn’t end well, didn’t you?”</p><p>“They thought I… hate people”, Ludger says quietly, pushing the vat to the side.</p><p>“ I don’t hate anyone. They thought I lied but they don’t know me at all, I never lie, comrade, and I don’t hate anyone.”</p><p>“I believe you, Dove”, Valeri says, putting the corroded cross away and taking Ludger’s bandaged hands into his own.</p><p>“You’ll be all right. Everything will be all right. Just… Please tell me, is there still something inside you that should not be there?”</p><p>Ludger shakes his head, pushing his face against Valeri’s chest and inhaling the warm air.</p><p>“No, comrade… That’s all...”</p><p>“Dove?”</p><p>“What if they put a baby in me, comrade?”</p><p>Valeri’s arms wrap around him, heavy and reassuring, and Ludger lets out a little sob.</p><p>“I don’t want a Yankee baby…”</p><p>“Dove… Oh, my poor Dove… Shh, you are safe. I don’t think such thing is possible.”</p><p>Valeri’s hands fondle along Ludger’s naked back and Valeri bows his cheek against Ludger’s soft, tangled hair.</p><p>“I’d… I’d love a baby… But I don’t want it to become a Yankee bastard… I… I...”</p><p>“Shh, Dove. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I won’t let anything like that happen, okay?”</p><p>“Please”, Ludger sobs. “<em>I never miss.</em>”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<em>Think I don’t know how it works? I have four sons. Four. I don’t miss.</em>”</p><p>Ludger shivers so hard he could be blown out of his body like blowing a candle’s flickering flame.</p><p>“Oh Dove… That’s not true. Who told you that?”</p><p>“The bad one. They’ll take my babies away and...”</p><p>Valeri combs his fingers into Ludger's hair and shushes him softly, holding his naked form against himself tightly.</p><p>“They lied, Dove. They won’t get to you again, I’ll make sure of that. You’re safe with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Comrade Valeri…?”</p><p>“Yes?” There is a wet, feverish gleam in the pilot’s eyes, a film of tears Valeri would gladly wipe away.</p><p>“Do you think I am retarded?”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are pale and shimmering and sincere, and a chill of repulsion creeps up Valeri’s spine. He presses a finger against Ludger’s lips and shakes his head.</p><p>“Dove, no… Please, don’t use such word, it’s… not good. And no, I assure you that is not the case.”</p><p>The pilot catches his breath for a moment, and looks at Valeri again.</p><p>“Comrade, are you a Jew?”</p><p>The cold sets in like a wind from Siberia, making the pilot’s skin grow cool under Valeri’s touch.</p><p>He is holding a stranger.</p><p>“Would it change something if I was, Ritter?”</p><p>“Are the Yankees Jews?” the pilot whispers. His voice is a wet little whisper and his eyes are scanning Valeri’s face.</p><p>“Some of them could be”, Valeri says. “Would that change something?”</p><p>The pilot grabs Valeri’s hand and tears begin to stream down his cheeks.</p><p>“I don’t know! I don’t know if I have ever seen a Jew. Or perhaps I have and didn’t notice. Am I a Jew, comrade? They said...”</p><p>“Ludger, what on Earth are you saying?”</p><p>“They said I am helping the Reich to commit terrible deeds. I never meant anything bad, I am so sorry if I ever did awful things to you, comrade! I don’t even know what a Jew is and I didn’t know you before but if I ever carried out hurtful actions towards you, I am sorry, please forgive me!”</p><p> </p><p>“Ludger… Hey, Ludger, Dove...” Valeri gathers the crying pilot tightly into his arms and Ludger’s cold, wet nose brushes against his neck.</p><p>“They say I am doing bad things and made for bad things. I don’t even know what those words mean. They say I’m a queer and... and… What if they are right, comrade?!”</p><p>Valeri embraces the man tightly until his cries have turned into quiet sobs, rocks him along to an unheard melody and fondles his distressed velvet back.</p><p>“Then you are one intelligent, kind, beautiful, queer man, Dove, made for good things only.”</p><p>“… what is a queer, comrade?”</p><p>“I, uh...” The pilot’s eyes are huge and wet and unashamed, and Valeri has to look away to answer.</p><p>“A queer is someone who falls in love with men, Ludger. That’s what the word really means. If you… fell in love with men, or wanted to dance in the dark with them. That’s queer.”</p><p>“Oh...” The pilot lets out a relieved sigh and presses his cheek against Valeri’s chest.</p><p>“I thought it was something bad. So… I’m not queer then? I haven’t been in love before.”</p><p>“Oh, Ludger…” Valeri holds the pilot against himself as if he could stop his Dove from turning into a bird and flying away with blood-soaked wings.</p><p>“I don’t think anything about you is bad.”</p><p>Valeri plants a soft kiss onto the pilot’s forehead, among his messy hair.</p><p>“My handwriting is.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“My handwriting is very bad, comrade. The Professor says it’s barely intelligible, but the Professor’s handwriting is not the best either”, the pilot whispers so seriously Valeri lets out a shocked little laugh. Ludger studies his face.</p><p>“I don’t get it, comrade. Why should it be like everyone else’s? What about you?”</p><p>“I… Well, I guess you could say my handwriting is well up to the standards, but I do prefer...”</p><p>“No, comrade. Have you been in love before?”</p><p>Ludger’s scalp is impossibly pale and rosy under the white, silky hair. It's like the moment before sunrise, seen through frosted trees. One might claim the man could be an albino if not for the ashy freckles along his cheekbones and the specks of sky shimmering in his eyes. Not a full albino, then, but a one-of-a-kind concoction of inherited irregularities and gifts from the ever-shifting fate.</p><p>“I have… Had my share of fascinations, yes. Admirations, perhaps even obsessions. But love, to a man like me… It’s a consuming sickness, Dove.”</p><p>The pilot's breath is warm against his bare neck. Ludger is warmer than any human he knows, but it’s not a burning, feverish heat. Valeri must have noticed that before, the warmth radiating through his uniform and skin like a sun beaming from within, or like the reactors of his plane, glowing against the blanket of stars.</p><p>“Do you need medicine, comrade?”</p><p>“I...” Valeri pauses, nods and puts on a smile.</p><p>“Sure, Dove. Sometimes I do. Fifty grams of ethanol diluted in the same weight of water. Administer a new dose until the symptoms disappear.”</p><p>“For your heart too? The Professor used to give me cognac to help. It makes you less cold, doesn’t it?”</p><p>“Indeed, Dove… It makes me less cold.”</p><p>The pilot’s hand slides under Valeri’s shirt and against his chest.</p><p>“Don’t worry, comrade Valeri. Perhaps, through the miracle of medicine, your heart will get better too...”</p><p>“Dove, Ludger…” Valeri hesitates, but the pilot does not. He presses his ear against Valeri’s chest and listens.</p><p>“It does sound awfully fast, comrade. Your pulse. Do you feel unwell? Do you need to lie down?”</p><p>“I feel really well, Dove… I feel really really well now.”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Yes, Dove.”</p><p> </p><p>Ludger’s bandaged hand reaches out to slowly touch the small, heart-shaped scar on Valeri’s cheek.</p><p>“When you hit yourself against the night stand… What did your handler do?”</p><p>The hot fingertip traces the scar like the brush of a calligrapher.</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Your handler. The one who trained you. What did she do when you hit yourself on the night stand, when you were learning to keep yourself upright?”</p><p>The pilot barely blinks, absorbing the view of Valeri’s flushing face like trying to memorize a complex landscape.</p><p>“My mother? I think she got me something cool to keep on the injury and kissed the hurt away. Why?”</p><p>“How did your handler… your mother kiss the hurt away? Does it work?”</p><p>“Well, no, not much in the literal sense, I guess. But it made me feel better because we were family, she asked me if I wanted a kiss and I felt that she cares. But it doesn’t mean… No-one has the right to kiss you without your permission, Ludger. Does someone do that to you? Does your ‘handler’ kiss you without permission?”</p><p>“The Professor?” Ludger lets out an unfiltered little giggle.</p><p>“No, no, the Professor says ‘poor Eibisch’ and gives me candied fruit and looks at the machines closely. The machines talk. Not to me, but they talk a lot to the Professor. Have you had candied fruits, comrade?”</p><p>“I have. Do you like sweets a lot, Dove?”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes light up, like when he was talking about his craft, and he leans closer and smiles.</p><p>“Yes. Yes! Do you?!”</p><p>“Yes, Dove.”</p><p>“I wish I had sweets for you, comrade.”</p><p>“That’s very kind of you”, Valeri says and pets the hair on the back of the pilot’s head, smiling softly.</p><p>“I want the best things for you, comrade Valeri”, Ludger breathes out, intertwining their fingers and leaning closer.</p><p>“Do you authorize me to make you feel better, comrade?”</p><p>“I… sure, Dove.”</p><p>The pilot’s hot lips are on Valeri’s cheek, his breath flutters over the skin like warm vapor and the kiss is soft like a cloud. Valeri wants to turn his head, see the expression on the pale face radiating with heat, but the lips are too close to his own. He remains still, like a photographer immortalizing a rare creature, preserving every detail but not daring to disturb the moment. Ludger’s mouth grazes over the scar on his cheek and finally the man pauses to embrace him, head rested softly against Valeri’s shoulder.</p><p>“Did it work, comrade?”</p><p>Ludger’s hot breath flutters across Valeri’s skin. If he were a sheet of paper, he’d burst into flames right then and there and vanish.</p><p>“Yes, Dove… Yes, it worked really well.”</p><p>“Do you feel sick still, comrade? You’re shivering.”</p><p>“No, Dove… Not at all.”</p><p>“Are you sure? Your heart rate is very high. Do you have fever, comrade?”</p><p>“Shh, Ludger… All is well. I feel much better, thanks to you. You should get some sleep now, okay?”</p><p>The pilot presses his face into Valeri’s neck and pecks a small, soft kiss on it.</p><p>“Okay, comrade.”</p><p> </p><p>The covers shifts in the darkness, and the distant rumble of thunder ceases. The pilot's body radiates heat against Valeri, shifting slightly in secrecy.</p><p>A breath, awake and acute, is quickly silenced, yet the shifting continues. Valeri forces himself to stay still and keep the rhythm of his breathing steady, for the pilot's muffled breaths are growing more hasty and frequent.</p><p>His body quivers so close to Valeri, skin sliding against his and rekindling pieces of his warm and hazy dream, but the man can hardly be blamed. Valeri could reach out, gesture he's awake, perhaps even help...</p><p>But such course of action might embarrass the man, for he might be only seeking for a fast release to get back to sleep.</p><p>The pilot's shifts are growing more intense, breath flowing back and forth like the waves of a stirred sea, and Valeri has to struggle to keep his eyes closed.</p><p>A width of a palm separates them, edges blurring together momentarily before parting again, and if Valeri were to reach out to him, they might tangle together and blend like alcohol and ink.</p><p>A gasped breath flows out of sight between the pilot’s lips, but it’s effortless to picture them, tightening into a single line of crimson on the pale canvas as he muffles the sound. The pilot’s grasp tightening, the bend of his spine as he arches his back…</p><p>
  <em>Can you kiss me more before I go?</em>
</p><p>The breath in Valeri’s chest is too hot, it wants out too fast. His heart is beginning to pound. The pilot’s body shifting so close, stronger than him even in its weakened state, hot like a lightning strike and just as thrilling. Valeri’s skin is prickling, the electricity running along his nerves and lighting up his fingertips and mouth with a sudden rush of circulation.</p><p>Can he?</p><p>Is this an invitation? Or does the pilot think he’s blissfully asleep? Is he just a bystander, or… If the pilot reached out for relief… Fingers like live flames sliding over his skin, or nails dragging like glass knives. A burning breath blowing across his body, bright eyes piercing into him…</p><p>
  <em>Come fly with me, comrade... it’s so very warm up here.</em>
</p><p>The delirious burn grows ever more intense, the pilot’s breath hitching. The distance to the stars is at a hand’s reach, a dizzying climb through the heavens and beyond. This is an eternity in a heartbeat, an agonizing paradise between two breaths, and as Valeri’s hand travels across the space, a wet heat.</p><p>Valeri's eyes fly open. There's blood on his hand, and the pilot's face is struck with silent terror.</p><p>"Dove?!"</p><p>Valeri pushes the blanket aside. The pilot's nails are digging deep into the soft skin of his abdomen and quiet tears are streaming down his cheeks. He barely registers Valeri sitting up, dragging yet more blood from the wounds.</p><p>”Dove! Dove, stop!”</p><p>Valeri grabs the pilot’s hands, trying to pull them away. The pilot’s milky skin parts like pudding and unreal shades of red jelly and juice unravel like a cake being cut into. Scent of sweet, hot blood fills the air and Valeri’s fingers tangle with the pilots and pull them away from the ruby-dribbling ravines.</p><p>”Ludger, it’s me. Please stop, you are hurting yourself.”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes turn to him slowly, glassed over like cloudy crystal balls, scanning over Valeri’s face hazily. His bandaged hands are clawing at his abdomen still, slippery with blood.</p><p>”Ludger, Dove… It’s me, Valeri. Please, let me help.”</p><p>”… Valeri?”</p><p>”Yes, Ludger… Your comrade Valeri. I am right here, see? I’ll help you.”</p><p>The pilot’s hands go slack and his eyes slowly concentrate on Valeri’s. The deeper layers of his tissue are pushing out through the cuts in his skin, like colourful silk papers from an envelope, and he’s panting in panic.</p><p>”… help? Please help me?”</p><p>”I’m helping, Dove. I’m right here, I’m helping, shh… What’s wrong?”</p><p>”A… A baby... They put a baby in me...”</p><p>”Ludger, Dove...” Valeri gathers the pilot’s hands carefully into one of his hands and reaches out for a clean towel with the other.</p><p>”There’s no baby. Your stomach probably still hurts from the injuries. Shhh now, let’s stop the bleeding, okay?”</p><p>”… It’s a Yankee bastard, they’ll take it away and… please don’t let them take me there! Take it out, comrade… oh no, no no no...”</p><p>The pilot tries to push the towel away.</p><p>”Oh Dove, you’re very scared… Let me see? I’ll check you up, and if something is wrong, I’ll take care of it, okay?”</p><p>”… will you take it out, comrade?”</p><p>Valeri gives the pilot a reassuring half-smile and a nod, pressing the towel against the wounds to stop the bleeding.</p><p>”You’ll be okay, Dove. Shh, that’s good, that’s my sweet Dove, just like that, please stay still and let me help.”</p><p>The pilot’s fingers wrap tightly around Valeri’s hand and silent tears stream down his cheeks. The cuts are bleeding, but as pressure is applied, the bleeding slows down, red blossoms spreading gradually on the fabric like a field of flowers slowly waking to a bloom.</p><p>”<em>Shh, you are safe. I don’t think such thing is possible</em>”, the pilot whispers, clasping Valeri’s hand.</p><p>”You’re right, Dove. You’re safe right here. You just got scared, it’s okay.”</p><p>”<em>I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I won’t let anything like that happen, okay?</em>”</p><p>The gaze in the pilot’s eyes is growing more aware. A spark of recognition, perhaps even hope. Valeri smiles to him, nodding.</p><p>”That’s right. I’m here with you and won’t let anything bad happen. We should bandage you up, little Dove, so you can heal. Okay?”</p><p>”Comrade Valeri...” The pilot’s brow furrows and he looks down at his naked abdomen and the bloody towel.</p><p>”Did I damage your experiment, comrade?”</p><p>”What? No, don’t say that, Dove. Shh...” Valeri raises the man’s bloody hands onto his lips and plants a soft kiss onto his knuckle. The blood is sugary and tangy like a sour cherry, giving off an eerily sweet aroma.</p><p>”You are not my experiment, Dove. I don’t own you, I couldn’t. No-one could own you. You are the Ritter, terror of the skies, Raging Thunder Transmitter. I’m just your comrade.”</p><p>”No-one?”</p><p>”Of course not, Dove. How do you bind lightning? How do you shackle the night? How do you put a star in a bottle?”</p><p>”You… don’t?”</p><p>The pilot’s teary eyes are curious. He follows keenly as Valeri reaches for bandages on the bedside table.</p><p>”No-one, comrade?”</p><p>”No-one, Ritter. Not unless you choose so.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The flow of blood has slowed down and Valeri moves the towel away carefully. Whatever the pilot’s nails are made of, they must be razor-sharp. Or perhaps the velvety skin is unusually fragile, or the feral panic itself has given him inhumane strength for a while.</p><p>The edges of the wounds are carved unevenly, exposing hidden layers of red and white, like a forbidden pavlova. The structure of his flesh seems to be unbelievably pliable, as keen on parting while cut as it is to knit back together when left to heal.</p><p>”Let’s bandage you nicely, okay? A nice, firm bandage around your stomach so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself again.”</p><p>”It was not an accident, comrade.”</p><p>”Do you think you might do so again, Ludger?”</p><p>”They… They lied, yes comrade? It’s not true what they said about my belly? Can you check?”</p><p>”Hey, shh…. I already did, Dove. Remember? I checked you up, you are okay.”</p><p>The pilot grabs Valeri’s hand and pulls it towards himself.</p><p>”Again? What if you didn’t notice? I… I can take it, I swear, I...”</p><p>”Ludger, Dove… Your anatomy is unusual, but the risk seems extremely unlikely. Besides, we don’t want to hurt you more, okay?”</p><p>”It already hurts”, the pilot sighs: ”You won’t hurt me. You can’t. Please...”</p><p>”Ritter, you are admirably fearless when it comes to pain, but... Please tell, what would convince you?”</p><p>”Convince… me?” The pilot pauses for a moment, gazing down at himself and the bloody web of claw marks on his stomach.</p><p>”Does information help? Do you want to hear what I observed while I was… tending to your injuries?”</p><p>”I… yes”, the man says slowly, and a cautious, wet half-smile creeps on his lips.</p><p>”Like… Like a report? Of me? You have studied me, yes?”</p><p>”Very certainly, Dove. It’s been my primary task for a long time, I guess one could go as far as claiming I am a professional on Ritter-related questions. Would you let me bandage your cuts now?”</p><p>The pilot nods, raising himself carefully to a sitting position, teary eyes gleaming feverishly. Rubies drip slowly down his white velvet skin and his hands wrap to squeeze the covers. He’s frozen in place, waiting.</p><p>”You don’t spontaneously bleed, do you Dove?” Valeri asks softly, taking a roll of bandage and beginning to wrap it around the pilot’s lower abdomen.</p><p>”I... is it bad, comrade? When… when the offensive happened...”, the pilot says, holding eerily still as Valeri tightens the bandage.</p><p>”Does the bleeding make me…?”</p><p>”No, Dove, it does not work like that. If you did not bleed regularly before, it means nothing.”</p><p>”But… I was shot down again and again. Cut. Torn. And needles and...”</p><p>”Dove, I assure you it doesn't work like that.”</p><p>The pilot falls back on the bed, letting out a sigh of relief, or perhaps pain. Valeri puts a hand softly onto his abdomen.</p><p>”Your anatomy is very peculiar, Dove. The inside of your body is… excuse me for the lack of a better description, but… reminiscent of a very soft, jelly-like sleeve. The lack of, um, identifiable anatomic features must have protected you from further damage. I…”</p><p>The expression on the pilot’s face is growing distressed.</p><p>”Is it bad, comrade? Do you think I’m made for… for...”</p><p>”Made for lovely, beautiful things, Dove. You’re born to feel good, to make others feel good, to care and be cared for. Anyone telling you otherwise is a liar. What you are is a wonder, not a curse.”</p><p>Valeri brushes his hand gently over the pilot’s skin, and a ripple of relief travels across the man’s features. Encouraged, Valeri strokes the pilot’s stomach again, gently drawing invisible shapes onto him.</p><p>”It is… quite marvellous, Dove. You are.”</p><p>”Comrade… I think you are wrong.”</p><p>”Dove, don’t say that, you...”</p><p>”No. I think they lied to you, comrade. I don’t think you are sick.”</p><p>The pilot is looking at Valeri, eyes peering through eyelids so narrow they seem to reflect a sliver of rosy red.</p><p>”Dove?”</p><p>”I don’t think you have a consuming sickness, comrade Valeri. I think the people who say that are… not monsters. They are... something much worse. Damn their opinion. I think… I think you are a wonder too.”</p><p>The pilot’s heart rate is slowing down. His skin is growing warmer under Valeri’s touch, tension mellowing into alertness as the panic subsides. His hands, sticky with blood, fumble and reach to cradle Valeri’s face.</p><p>”Are you okay, comrade? Did I make you sad?”</p><p>The pilot is trying to wipe Valeri’s cheeks dry, smearing blood and tears around.</p><p>”Don’t be sad, comrade... They lied, it’s not real.”</p><p>He lifts himself up, wraps his arms around Valeri’s shoulders and presses his cheek against Valeri’s.</p><p>”It’s just stupid lies, comrade. You are made for good things too.”</p><p>Their cheeks are wet together, the pilot’s warm breath caressing over Valeri’s neck like a touch.</p><p>”Will you hold me when we sleep?”</p><p>”I… I should stay up and keep watch. We should make sure you stay safe, Dove.”</p><p>”Please, comrade? I’ll be safe with you.”</p><p>”I… Okay, Dove. With one condition”, Valeri says softly, taking the pilot’s hand into his own.</p><p>”We could cuff our wrists together, so that you won’t hurt yourself and I’ll wake up right away if you need me. Would that be okay for you, Dove? You will not be my prisoner any more than I am yours.”</p><p><em>”Mine?”</em> The pilot gasps and squeezes Valeri’s hand tighter.</p><p>”Yes, Dove. It would be a mutual agreement, for both of us to feel safe. One cuff around your wrist, and one around mine. What do you think, Ludger?”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The handcuff closes around the pilot’s pale wrist loosely, like a bracelet. In the twilight, it glimmers like gold against the porcelain skin and bloodied bandage.</p><p>”Feeling good, Dove?”</p><p>Valeri intertwines his fingers with the pilot’s, brushing hair off the man’s face with the other hand. Their left hands are joined together with a pair of handcuffs and a tender grip neither of them wants to release.</p><p>”Affirmative. Are you, comrade?”</p><p>”Yes, Dove.”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes light up and he smiles shyly.</p><p>”Have you ever been on a plane, comrade?”</p><p>”Yes, Dove, I have. Never in a fighter plane, but for transportation. Why?”</p><p>”Do you feel like being on a plane now? I feel like I am.”</p><p>The pilot smiles wider, eyes lighting up as if invisible stars were reflecting over them. He leans towards the bed and Valeri follows. They fall slack on the mattress, the pilot’s eyes tracing the ceiling.</p><p>”They are all up there. Stars. Constellations. Outside the cockpit, outside the atmosphere. Do you see them?”</p><p>”Not right now, no Dove.”</p><p>”Look...” The pilot holds Valeri’s cuffed hand in his own and points up.</p><p>”The North Star, right there. There, Sagittarius. Sirius, the Morning Star, right there, above the dawn. See?”</p><p>Valeri’s hand keeps tracing stars across the dark ceiling, guided by his pilot’s hand, until his vision grows hazy and his hand begins to fall slack.</p><p>”Are you tired, comrade? Have you slept?”</p><p>”Not very much, Ritter… Not very much. I have been up too much, stargazing...”</p><p>The forest of clouds above them is dark and serene, the skies around them clear and vast and empty. Only the gentle breath of wind goes by. As the back of Valeri’s head lulls against the pilot and his back relaxes against the warmth, he sees the glowing line in the horizon. Hand in the pilot’s hand, he drifts to sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The scent of olive soap and fresh laundry, sweeter than incense, embraces him. It’s the scent of a free day at home with his mamma, the scent of cleaning and singing union songs and taking the lemon pie to the park with them.</p><p>The pie is better than ice cream, better than the fancy cake Billie Smith’s mom makes, it tastes like lemons and liberty and the Sun.</p><p>Laurie could say he does it all for the prize, but he doesn’t.</p><p>Making the beds with fresh, olive-scented sheets from mamma’s linen closet is not a chore, it is the prize.</p><p>The lemon pie and songs withdraw, the free day is spent and liberty retreats to the linen closet, but Laurie is left resting under a blanket, against the medic who smells of soap and comfort. He keeps his eyes closed for some time, tip of his nose pressed against the medic’s chest, and wishes he newer woke at all.</p><p>”… Laurie, are you awake, sir?”</p><p>Laurie springs up, loaded with terror and pain slashing through his body like a blade. The medic, Alan, looks at him, startled and in a state of sleepy disarray.</p><p>”Did I startle you, sir? I’m sorry, I just thought you woke up and...”</p><p>Laurie glances down, and a cold thrill runs down his spine. Alan’s gaze follows, but there’s no mess, and no…</p><p>”You are all right, sir. Sorry I startled you, I just thought you might want some tea and breakfast before you have to go.”</p><p>”<em>No.</em>”</p><p>”Just tea then, I can make it right here?”</p><p>”<em>No.</em>”</p><p>Laurie gets up hastily, clenching his jaw to not allow any pained whine out. The medic looks at him with a melancholic, hard-to-interpret expression and shakes his head slowly.</p><p>”I won’t force you, sir. But you look like you could use a day or two under the covers, some good medicine and a good hearty meal. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to...”</p><p>”No! He must not know! Just give me an aspirin and I’ll be on my way”, Laurie groans, pulling clothes on with shaking hands.</p><p>”Sir, I… I get it. Do what you must, but… please don’t forget the club meeting, sir. I’ll make sure there’s tea and something to eat when you come back, okay?”</p><p>The sergeant leaves without a word, swallowing back tears and the dry tablets he’s thrown into his mouth without water. His clothes feel foreign, moist against his fever-cold body and fabric of his briefs sticking to his skin where a spot of blood has formed and half-dried. Laurie’s step is a drunken limp as he descends the stairs, his vision a wet blur, but no-one must know. He’s fine. He’s. Just. Fine.</p><p> </p><p>The aroma of strong, black tea, loose rice porridge and toasted bread on the tray is soothing. Mundane, as if the war never was, and Alan was just taking the family's Saturday breakfast to the living room.</p><p>He can almost smell the Christmas tree, and his father’s stable coat, and the clove-adorned oranges above the fireplace.</p><p>What would Laurie say of their messy Saturday breakfasts? Or the way his mother pecks kisses at his father as they pass by each other, half-eaten toast in hand? Or the heaps of books on the coffee table, of medical textbooks and biographies and chemistry and gratuitous fantasies?</p><p>Alan is an avid lover of literature, academic texts and heroic tales alike, but nothing, nothing he’s ever read could prepare him to this. To the death, the never-ending terror, the hopelessness. The stench of dried blood envelopes him like a familiar shell as he steps to the door. The stench has become his new skin, the one that crawls and prickles until he can’t take it any longer, has to numb it… But he won’t do that today. He waits for permission before stepping in.</p><p>”Brought your breakfast, sir. For your, eh... guest too. Is there anything you need assistance with or…?” The medic freezes, breakfast tray hovering an inch above the desk surface and his mouth struggling against the wish to hang wide open.</p><p>The Russian investigator sits still in bed, hair ruffled to unruly, almost obscene curls, arms gently folded around his feral captive. The pilot looks, in all the senses of the word, absolutely <em>fucked</em>. Blood has dried into the crevices of his red lips and his pale skin is decorated with the blue and purple spots of a cursed ghost leopard. His gaze, moist and hungry, can not be turned away from the Russian, and he is naked all the way Alan can see, all the way to his narrow, bruised hips.</p><p>”Good morning, Alan. Rested well and recovered from the trip, I hope?”</p><p>Alan flinches and meets the Russian’s friendly eyes.</p><p>”I, uh… Sure, sir. Yes, I… I did. Just, turned out to be a pretty late night, sir.”</p><p>”Oh, your American friend? Is he all right?”</p><p>The German pilot’s eyes in their bruised sockets come alive and his attention snaps towards the medic, as a weapon aiming at a new target.</p><p>”Did you stop it? Is he still bleeding?”</p><p>His hands gesture vaguely, loosening bandages peeling away from his palms and a short, metallic chain dangling from his wrist.</p><p>”Oh… Well, he’s taken care of for now. Stitched and stabilized. I… Thank you for letting me know, Ritter.”</p><p>It's the chain of a handcuff. It begins to clink quietly as the pilot’s hand begins to tremble. The other cuff wraps around the Russian’s wrist as he places his palm soothingly onto the man’s arm, but the pilot's brow furrows and he shoots a concerned glance at Alan.</p><p>”He was critically injured. He asked for it to stop and was bleeding… Is he safe now? Will he be okay? So he doesn’t have to go through this again?”</p><p>Alan exchanges glances with Valeri. There is tension in the room, charged with electricity, as the pilot looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.</p><p>”There’s… there’s breakfast for both of you here, sir. Rice porridge, and toast, sorry if it's a tad too dark, and unsweetened tea as usual. Or would you have preferred something else?”</p><p>”This will surely do, Alan. Thank you. Would you kindly stay and exchange a couple of words with us still?”</p><p>The medic nods, pushes the table closer to the bed and observes in a petrified heartbeat as the pilot’s mouth opens for words he’d rather not hear.</p><p>”The rotten bastard will hurt him again, won’t he? The bad one.”</p><p>The Russian, Valeri, grabs a key and slowly, carefully, begins to free the pilot from the metal cuff. His head is tilted slightly, he’s almost smiling, looking casual and friendly, but his hands are shaking.</p><p>”You think so, Ludger?”</p><p>”Affirmative.”</p><p>”In that case...” Valeri offers a gentle smile and nods to the medic.</p><p>”Alan, my friend, would you kindly lock the door? I think our comrade here could have… valuable information to offer, to prevent any accidents from happening.”</p><p>The pilot’s eyes are wide and glassy. Feverish eyes that have gazed too deep, a stare like sergeant Laurie’s…</p><p>Valeri wraps his arm around the pilot, signalling Alan to hand him a cup of tea.</p><p>”Uh... Unsweetened and dark, as you asked, sir.”</p><p>”Thank you, Alan. And thank you, Ludger, for telling us. You think someone might be in danger, Dove? I think…”</p><p>Valeri glances at Alan, points a notebook on the desk, waves encouragingly. Write. Take notes. Alan hastily grabs the notebook and a pencil.</p><p>”I think it’s very brave of you to tell. Ludger. And now that you are reporting to us, we might be able to help. Do you think you could… reveal a little more about what happened? About the people you saw, names you heard, anything you think might help to keep people safe? You won’t be in any danger, they won’t know you testified. Here, have some tea, Dove, it might make you feel better.”</p><p>The pilot’s mouth opens, and a tale floods out like an un-ending stream of black, coagulated blood and poison.</p><p>It is not a first hand account of a shell-shocked man. It is a recording from dark, horrifying places between dimensions.</p><p>Word by word, one accent and emphasis and a pained gasp at a time the nightmare comes to flesh. Paints a picture in gruesome detail, a picture of men Alan knows and of deeds he’s never so much as imagined.</p><p>His mind is numb, cold, withdrawn back into his attic room and heroin haze, but his hand keeps writing, and Valeri keeps lifting a cup of tea to the pilot’s pale lips, rubbing circulation back into his shoulders and his bruised arms, rocking him just so slightly against himself.</p><p>In the end, the pilot goes quiet. His eyes light back up, come alive, dart between the medic and Valeri, frightened yet hopeful.</p><p>”Is this satisfactory?”</p><p>"That was... very helpful. Thank you, Ludger", Valeri says slowly, glancing at Alan quickly.</p><p>"Alan, my friend, please have a toast and some tea. I can take those notes, if you don't mind. Be so kind..."</p><p>The medic hands over the notebook in a nauseated trance and hesitantly takes a piece of bread as Valeri gestures him to eat. He can't fathom how he's supposed to ever be hungry again.</p><p>"Ludger, Dove... I assume you understand we might not be able to help you carry a personal vendetta against the people who hurt you?"</p><p>The pilot shakes his head and leans against the Russian like a tired child.</p><p>"I don't care about that... I just want the hurting to stop."</p><p>Valeri nods.</p><p>"That I think we can help with. Alan... please do eat, you'll feel better."</p><p>The medic presses the slice of bread against his lips. It’s already cold, slightly burned at the edges, and tastes of nothing as he chews. He keeps chewing, devouring pieces of the unreal bread. The whole display is surreal, like the setting of a bizarre dream. The downed enemy pilot chugs down tea, rocking just so slightly, naked as the day he was born, and the Russian eyes through the notes as if reading a mere morning paper. Steam rises from the surface of the other tea cup Alan’s been made to pour for himself, bitter and refreshing.</p><p>”Alan?”</p><p>The medic stops chewing. The Russian’s eyes are bright and focused like microscope lenses.</p><p>”Would you do me a favour, comrade?”</p><p>”What is it, sir?”</p><p>”Two things, actually. First, would you be so kind and head back to town to inform my men I’ll demand their assistance soon? In the meantime, I’ll make sure their arrival is approved of and that the conditions surrounding our stay are pleasant.”</p><p>”I… sure, sir, if you indeed think you’ll have a permission to bring them in.”</p><p>The car ride will be long and solitary. Perhaps, once he’s outside on his own, Alan will have a chance to retreat to sweet nothingness for a while. Just for an hour or two…</p><p>”And second… Please take someone with you, to ensure road safety. How about… Mr. O’Reilly?”</p><p>The Irish boy shoving a well-read paperback into Alan’s hand, explaining plot points in no particular order.</p><p>The Irish boy, bent over to empty the contents of his stomach at the side gate.</p><p>The Irish boy, rotating around █████, eager to step in to do any menial task on behalf of Laurie to earn an approving grunt…</p><p>”Alan. Thank you. Please come to me any time if you need help with your correspondence with miss Eyre, will you?”</p><p>”Miss…?”</p><p>”<em>Miss Eyre, your trusted counsellor</em>. She might be soothing, but letting her take control over decisions might not do you well, my friend.”</p><p>Alan nods, following each of the pilot’s expressions carefully, but he seems blissfully ignorant of the subject of the conversation. He’s sipping his tea with the fascinated precision of a chemist at the brink of a discovery, leaning against the Russian in a posture of relief.</p><p>”Your troubled American friend did not disclose the incident to you much, I take it?”</p><p>There’s a smile on Valeri’s lips, but it’s a joyless, empathetic smile. ”Are you two close?”</p><p>The medic’s brow furrows. With Laurie? Is anyone close with Laurie, really? He shakes his head.</p><p>”But you do care, a great deal, even after hearing all this? That is the goodness in you, my friend. Not Miss Eyre’s advice, but your own innate idealism. Hold on to those ideals, Alan. Take those with you, once you’ll leave this damned war, and the domain of Miss Eyre, in the past.”</p><p>Alan’s hands are too cold, electric, cool shocks running up his veins and sparking along his arms.</p><p>”I don’t know what to say, sir. I wish you were right… But I think I may just be a fool, grasping at things that are not attainable.”</p><p>”Only time will tell; the greatest healer. Think she’ll be kind to your American friend?”</p><p>The cold sinks to the bottom of Alan’s stomach like an icy rock. He’s seen men spring back from worse… But also men fall from less, go septic and slip and flow between the gloved fingers of medicine like sand.</p><p>”I… sure hope so, sir.”</p><p>”Alan, my friend… Would you and your American like to participate in a bit of research? It would be greatly beneficial to have him in a statement giving condition later. For your safety only, Dove. We’ll make sure you don’t have to associate with any of these men if you don’t wish so.”</p><p>Alan nods slowly.</p><p>”I can not submit him to any inhumane treatment, sir, and I refuse to let him be threatened in any way in the state he is now… But if there’s something else...”</p><p>Valeri hands him a beautiful, small metal container. Inside, there’s a small handful of pale pills that give off a slight, sickly sweet scent. Alan lifts his gaze, shaking his head slowly.</p><p>”I… whatever these are, I can not drug or harm him, sir. He needs help, not manipulation. I am sorry, sir, but I will have to do something if you try. I have a great deal of appreciation for you, and would only like to set things right for you and, uhh… Ludger? So please, don’t make me.”</p><p>The medic is shaking, but he holds the container out and does not budge. The pilot looks at the Russian, brow furrowed.</p><p>”Comrade, I don’t wish any more harm.”</p><p>”Oh...” The Russian’s expression melts into surprise, even shame.</p><p>”It’s not… I wouldn’t… It’s a new kind of medicine, Dove. The same kind I gave to you: antibiotics. Experimental, very effective to fight infection. I had access to some thanks to the assignment I work on. In, well, in the hope we’d capture you alive, Ludger.”</p><p>The Russian gives Alan’s hand a gentle squeeze and plants the container back into his palm.</p><p>”Consider it a research collaboration, these might be the next X-ray. I get my men, you get your friend in good health, and Ludger gets some peace and quiet. God knows we all need a little hope here. You with me, Alan?”</p><p> </p><p>Once the medic is gone, the pilot melts, falls back onto his back with a halo of tangled hair around his head.</p><p>"Were you serious, not wishing revenge on them, Dove?"</p><p>"Affirmative."</p><p>"But you consent to their command being informed, if it lessens the risks?"</p><p>"Yes..."</p><p>The pilot looks at Valeri curiously, eyes half-lidded and skin flushed.</p><p>"Ludger, can I take your uniform and the weapon to be used as evidence? You will have your uniform back fully laundered and repaired afterwards. Until then, you are naturally welcome to borrow something from me."</p><p>"Okay", the pilot breathes, but his full attention is on Valeri's hand. The pilot takes it, holds it against his velvet cheek, nuzzles his warm nose against Valeri's palm. The crimson line of his lips brushes along the veins on Valeri's wrist.</p><p>"Dove... if you are experiencing withdrawal, you are allowed to voice it. You don't have to do anything besides healing and resting."</p><p>"Oh..." The pilot blinks.</p><p>"Withdrawal. Yes. But... I wasn't doing anything? Does this feel uncomfortable to you?"</p><p>His breath flickers against Valeri's palm like a trapped butterfly and his fever-hot skin glows through Valeri's trembling fingers.</p><p>"...No, Dove. Not at all. You just... don't have to do that."</p><p>"Don't have to..." The pilot plants a kiss against Valeri's fingertip, and then another.</p><p>"Dove, please... I can just give you Pervitin."</p><p>"...okay", the pilot says, but looks uneasy.</p><p>"You don't think there is some sort of hook attached to this, do you, Ludger?"</p><p>The pilot bites his bruised lip, shaking his head slowly, and sighs.</p><p>"Come here, Dove. Please sit up, I'll give you medicine, okay?"</p><p>The man gets up slowly, naked skin brushing against Valeri and body vibrating with nervous energy.</p><p>"Comrade Valeri... I feel weird."</p><p>The pilot's eyes are gleaming and spots of rosy red colour his cheeks like bitemarks in cake frosting. His mouth is dry, cherry tongue sweeping across lips for a drop of moisture.</p><p>"That's what dehydration and withdrawal do, Dove. You'll feel better after the medicine and some food and drink."</p><p>The pilot's eyes follow Valeri's every movement as he searches for the package from his coat pockets. He is unnervingly still, like a machine waiting for orders, and once Valeri finds the package, he locks eyes with him, ready to spring into action at his mark.</p><p>"Dove... It's right here. You don't have to do anything. Please, have one, we don't want the symptoms to make you unwell."</p><p>"I..." the pilot looks at the tablet, looks at Valeri... and leans forward to catch the pill, as well as Valeri's fingers, into his warm, wet mouth without breaking eye contact.</p><p>Valeri lets go of the pill.</p><p>His head is empty of words and his fingers are slippery and the pilot's mouth is too hot and too silky and too much everything at once, and the pilot's peculiar tongue runs along the underside of his index finger.</p><p>There is a look of uninhibited joy in the pilot's eyes, one that would be lovely if it was honey or ripe summer fruits or ice cream that was served to him...</p><p>Slowly the pilot pulls away, planting a kiss onto Valeri's fingertips, and sighs:</p><p>"Thank you, comrade."</p><p>"<em>Clothes</em>", Valeri breathes.</p><p>"We need clothes. You can borrow some. And... laundry, and lunch, and I've got mail to send."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>The pilot's eyes are wide and too bright, his naked body shivering, and Valeri hurries to caress his cheek gently.</p><p>"Clothes, Dove. I'll lend you nice, clean things to put on, and then you'll be free to rest here in my quarters as I take care of a couple of errands, okay?"</p><p>"I feel... so weird, comrade", the pilot whispers, a desperate gleam in his eyes and his skin too warm and rosy.</p><p>"Maybe it's the withdrawal, Dove? You look healthier, perhaps a little rest and food and medicine will work best."</p><p>"No, I feel really strange... Please, comrade…"</p><p>The pilot takes Valeri's hesitating hand and puts it against his lower abdomen. The hot skin against Valeri's palm quivers and tenses at the touch, and the pilot lets out a muffled whimper.</p><p>"Comrade, help?"</p><p>"Oh, Dove... When did you last go to the bathroom? The pressure might make you feel uncomfortable. Let's see if that helps, yes?"</p><p>The pilot looks at him with a surprised little smile, and leans closer to inspect as Valeri begins to dress in socks and trousers, slides his boots on and fastens the leg braces.</p><p>"That's it? Nothing's wrong?"</p><p>"That's right, Dove. You'll surely feel better soon."</p><p>Valeri moves to the side of the bed, levers himself up with the support from his cane, and trips.</p><p>His legs are silk threads and fruit juice and feathers and he falls.</p><p>The pilot catches him from behind before he falls on the floor, inhumanely strong arms wrapped under Valeri's shoulders and lifting him up like he weighs nothing.</p><p>"Are you okay, comrade?"</p><p>Valeri is pulled back on the bed, the pilot holding him against his naked chest still.</p><p>"I... think so, Dove. Thank you. You are... very strong. Wow."</p><p>The pilot releases him slowly and slips from between the covers, naked and ruffled like worn velvet.</p><p>"Do you need help, comrade? Have I done something inappropriate?"</p><p>"Oh, no, Dove. It's all right, I think it's all the lifting. Please go ahead and relieve yourself, I'll take the wheelchair."</p><p>The pilot does, tip-toeing to the bathroom barefoot and bruised, glancing behind to check if Valeri is getting into the wheelchair safely.</p><p> </p><p>Valeri combs his confused hair back to a semblance of civility and straightens his collar. The pilot’s startled voice from the bathroom brings his thoughts rushing back to the present moment.</p><p>”I can’t. I tried and I can’t, comrade. I think I'm broken.”</p><p>Valeri opens the door carefully and manouvers inside. The pilot sits on the toilet seat, hands wrapped around his body. His eyes are wet and wide and he looks at Valeri with a silent, pleading expression.</p><p>”Are you in pain, Dove?”</p><p>”No? Yes? I feel like I have to spring a leak, but can’t. Did they wreck me?”</p><p>”Shh… Hey, Dove, look at me, okay? Are you in a lot of pain?”</p><p>”N-no. No, comrade. I just… can’t.”</p><p>”Okay. Okay...” Valeri takes the pilot’s restless hand before it starts digging into his skin again.</p><p>”It could just be swelling. It will heal, as we give it a little time. In the meantime… Have you ever been catheterized, Dove?”</p><p>The pilot shakes his head, releasing his bitten lip from between his teeth.</p><p>”Negative. But I promise I won’t fight it, comrade, please don’t sedate me.”</p><p>His bruised cherry lips tremble and the frosty white tip of his nose seems to be waiting for a comforting kiss. Valeri reaches his hand out and brushes the pilot’s unruly hair off his face again.</p><p>”Of course not, Dove. It's not very uncomfortable. I do this a lot to myself, remember? Do you think we could try that, to make you feel better?”</p><p>”Yes!”</p><p>The pilot follows with mesmerized eyes as Valeri takes the equipment out.</p><p>”They use me to fetch equipment in the lab sometimes. I work fast, I remember where everything is located. Reference library too.”</p><p>”Wouldn’t have expected anything less. You seem to have an excellent memory, Ludger.”</p><p>”Affirmative.”</p><p>”I am sure it would be a delight to have you as a laboratory assistant, or research partner, Ludger. Okay now...”</p><p>Valeri hesitates. The man is fighting against shivers, a thin coat of sweat glistening on his forehead, cheeks much too flushed.</p><p>”I’ll have to touch your private area to be able to do this. Just for as long as inserting the catheter takes. Is that okay to you, Dove?”</p><p>”Yes. Yes, I’m not afraid.” The pilot nods and guides Valeri’s hand to his member.</p><p>”Please, comrade.”</p><p>The almost invisible patterns of the pilot’s skin are peculiar. Subtle. Nearly floral. The coating of his body seems to be covered in pale velvet fuzz, but the skin of his member is unbelievably smooth and silky. He lets out a muffled sound as Valeri inserts the tube, goosebumps rising and cheeks blushing even deeper.</p><p>”You’re doing great, Dove. Just a little while, okay?”</p><p>”Okay, comrade”, the pilot whispers in a shaky voice. He seems to be fighting the urge to move, muscles clenched and heart rate so intense coursing through his veins Valeri can sense it too, buzzing along his nerves like electricity.</p><p>"You'll feel much better in a moment, Dove", Valeri whispers encouragingly. The pilot moans in response, eyes tearing up.</p><p>"Please."</p><p>"Shh, just like that...."</p><p>Like an answered prayer, the procedure works. The pilot shudders in relief, as his strained body begins releasing the accumulated waste. It's dark and acidic and bitter, but it's functional nonetheless.</p><p>"Oh, comrade Valeri... ah...."</p><p>Valeri rubs the man's thigh soothingly and hums softly.</p><p>"It's working, see? You'll be okay, Dove."</p><p>A little whimper escapes the pilot's throat when the stream finally ends and Valeri extracts the tube carefully.</p><p>"Are you okay, Dove?"</p><p>The pilot's cheeks are burning and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, but he nods.</p><p>"Y-yes? No? I... I think? Will it... will it work better, next time?"</p><p>"We'll see, Dove. For now, best thing you can do to heal is resting and taking in a lot of fluids. Now, please come, let's find you some comfortable clothes."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Which ones, Dove?"</p><p>The pilot is eyeing the offered briefs suspiciously, hand hovering in the air.</p><p>"There's a difference?"</p><p>"Well... A very minimal one, perhaps, but both function the same. It's just so you can choose."</p><p>"Have you... worn these?"</p><p>"In the past, yes, but both are clean now."</p><p>Hesitantly, the man chooses one pair of briefs and pulls them on, still inspecting the fabric between his fingers.</p><p>"Okay, Dove. Now a shirt. Please feel free to borrow whichever, none are ironed yet but they are all clean."</p><p>Valeri gestures the pilot to look into the suitcase. The pilot's eyes narrow, and he reaches in to run his index along the fabrics. His finger stops on a pale blue shirt.</p><p>"So many colours. Why?"</p><p>Valeri frowns.</p><p>"I wouldn't suppose the shades are very far from the average men's fashion, outside the military? Though I admit having a fondness for style and may have spent on these quite shamelessly. A man's got to make an entrance. Would you have preferred a blander selection?"</p><p>The pilot blinks.</p><p>"Don't you have a uniform, comrade?"</p><p>"Oh, I do, but considering my field of work and the situations surrounding me, I'm not expected to follow the dress code to the letter."</p><p>"But... where do these come from?" The pilot carefully lifts a cream-colored shirt and nuzzles it with awe before sliding it over his head.</p><p>"Well... from a store, or a tailor? A rather expensive one, at times."</p><p>"And there are different kinds in there?"</p><p>”A plethora, Dove. Colours and weaves and and patterns you wouldn’t even think to desire before you see them. A real confectionery for the eye to people so inclined. You’ve never been to a tailor, Dove? We must take you to one once this damned war ends, and get you something really nice.”</p><p>The pilot rubs the sleeves against his cheeks, sighing in awe.</p><p>”This must be how clouds feel, comrade.”</p><p>”Either that, or your medicine was long due, Dove. Please, take whichever trousers you wish. And well, my shoes are made to fit me and I see you have a lighter step, but have the wool socks? Those ones are from my mother, and those other ones… Yes, those, they are from my comrade Kolya’s wife, Yelena. She’s such a kind, friendly soul.”</p><p>The pilot, still on his tiptoes, carefully picks up the sunflower-patterned socks dear Yelena has mailed them, along with home-made jam and children’s drawings. He slips his small, velveteen feet into the socks, and looks more natural somehow, as a cat standing on its soft, cautious paws. With a dazed smile, he rocks softly from side to side, studying the sensation.</p><p>”Are they satisfactory?”</p><p>The pilot nods slowly, and bends to choose a pair of uniform trousers, fondling their fabric like feathers of an exotic bird.</p><p>”You have worn these clothes. Will I feel like you, when I wear them?”</p><p>”What do you think, Dove?”</p><p>”I hope so, comrade.”</p><p>”Well...” Valeri goes quiet for a moment, looks at the pilot sliding into the clothes, his clothes, like into a second skin. The pilot’s eyes are too bright and his smile is hazy and he shivers against the fabric in delight.</p><p>”Perhaps you can report back to me about that once I come back, okay? I’ll lock the door, take your things to be laundered, take care of a few duties. Please feel free to rest, have tea and water… There’s even some soft drink from the Divided States, in case uncontrollable sugar intake tempts you. I’ll be return by your side as soon as I can, Dove.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Dazzle Deep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>DAZZLE DEEP</h1><p> </p><p>The air is cold like winter’s breath, and Ludger’s skin is jet fuel and solar flare and lightning. The bag thrown over his features smells of ozone and cleanliness. It’s pulled off without a sound, without a warning, and cool, lean hands of leather grab his chin.</p><p>The pilot is eye to eye with darkness, swirling against the lenses of a gas mask like living oil. The enemy soldier, a Soviet with no face, makes no sound as he begins to separate the pilot’s binds from the bars of the cell. Several more loom behind, quiet and tall like shadows made flesh.</p><p>As the soldier leans too close, Ludger bashes his head with the enemy’s, making him stagger, but not fall. The enemy gets back up, no eyes behind its dark gaze, and without a sound, strikes a fist against Ludger’s tender stomach. He gasps and heaves, guts twisting to a knot. The enemy hits him again, and once more, and Ludger gags as the heat explodes in his body and sends stars dancing in his vision.</p><p>”Taking… taking me to your master?”</p><p>The enemy’s palm, lean and stern, strikes him across the mouth and makes scarlet blood run from his nose.</p><p>”Too scared... to talk to me... yourself? Coward”, the pilot hisses, and the Soviet hits him again, splitting his lip, before yanking him away from the bondage and onto the floor on his knees.</p><p>The soldiers pay no mind to his insults. They grab him by the hands bound behind his back with steel grips. He’s dragged across the floor as if weightless. The raspy flutter of breath or tar or unknown machinery behind the masks doesn’t strain, and the uniforms brushing against his are pristine and smell of nothing but steam, pure cloth, clean metal and polished leather.</p><p>”Drones, that’s what you are! Ground-stomping, grub-guzzling cogs of a meat machine! You can’t keep me in chains, I’m an airman, my spirit’s free!”</p><p>The uniform boots and hallway floors and splatters of the pilot’s own, bleeding mouth blend into a blur as he’s dragged through the base.</p><p>Heavy doors part, metal and glass, and light pours out like an avalanche, causing snow blindness. The pilot screams, cursing his captors.</p><p>”Please, don’t waste your breath on them. They can’t hear you, <em>Ritter</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>A tall, elegant man in a pristine laboratory coat turns around slowly, a smile flickering on his lips.</p><p>”Such a joy to have you finally here. Thank you for your arrival,<em> Ritter</em>. How was your journey?”</p><p>Blood runs down from the pilot’s nose and he spits, making crimson trickle across the polished hardwood floor. He grins at the sight, raising his eyes to meet the scientist’s in silent defiance. They glow reactor-bright, alive like flames.</p><p>”Well that’s just wonderful to hear, comrade. You may call me comrade Valeri. All you need to know about me right now...”</p><p>The man takes a few steps closer, and just as the pilot is about to spit blood across his finely sculpted features, the stock of a rifle is struck against his back and he stumbles, falling on his knees at the scientist’s feet. The masked soldiers take a step back. Comrade Valeri looms over him, high as the skies and bright as solar fusion.</p><p>”Is that right now, I hold absolute power over you, Ritter. Your captivity and freedom, your life and death, your misery – and your relief. Anything you’ll have, you’ll have through me. Time spent on any other means is time thrown to waste. Understood?”</p><p>”Fuck you, comrade Valeri.”</p><p>”Maybe I will, my Dove. Maybe I will.”</p><p>The scientist flashes a smile full of smooth pearly teeth, and begins unbuttoning the white coat.</p><p>”We won’t need this, will we, <em>Ritter</em>? I’m trusting you would not taint my attire, and would the situation arise, my helpful assets are always ready to give you reminders.”</p><p>The pilot’s attempt to raise his head and spit is met with a bash to the back of his skull, and he’s forced to bow his neck in pain.</p><p>”What even are these assholes?!” He hisses through gritted teeth.</p><p>”My helpers? They are tools, Ritter, crafted through wonders of natural science and advanced mechanics, but just tools nevertheless. They don’t think, don’t hate, don’t want. They’ll just act, according to my vision and desire, and carry out whatever task I might give. They are crafted for me, to assist in my endeavour. And you, Ritter, are my endeavour. Truly marvelous assets, though...”</p><p>The man allows his laboratory coat to fall, and before it touches the floor, it’s been picked up and set aside by nimble hands, fast and ambiguous like liquid shadow.</p><p>”I’d much prefer a more autonomous asset. One that understands my wish without being told, engages with tasks out of its own volition, and finds its fulfillment from serving me well. I might be generous to such asset, treasure it as my most prized possession.”</p><p>Comrade Valeri’s hand reaches to hold Ludger's chin and turns his gaze towards his own.</p><p>”Do you think you could be my treasured asset, Ritter? Follow my every command and be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams? Or will you resist me in vain, waste your power in a futile struggle, just to find yourself conquered in the bitter end? It’s your choice, Ritter. I want you to choose.”</p><p>Ludger grits his teeth, a thin streak of blood running from his split lip and on the man’s gloved fingers. The scientist nods with a smile, bringing the bloodied fingertips to his lips. His tongue slides out to study the scarlet sample.</p><p>”I’ll savour your submission like the sweetest wine. I will take away all your power, my Dove. But you must remember, I could give it back to you at any time… If I so wished.”</p><p> </p><p>The man unbuckles his golden belt and pulls down his trousers. A masked soldier grabs Ludger’s hair tightly, and another restrains his arms, and there’s nothing to do but to look as comrade Valeri lowers his briefs.</p><p>”What do you think, Ritter? Will you bend now, or later?”</p><p>He guides the pilot’s face forward, guides the bruised lips against his manhood.</p><p>”Do you think you still have the grit in you to handle me? Or would you rather surrender and plead?”</p><p>The pilot flashes a bloody grin at the man, eyes locked with his.</p><p>”Handle you? I doubt you are capable of much, comrade Valeri.”</p><p>The scientist doesn’t drop the smile, mockingly caressing his hair and picking up the peaked cap from the pilot’s head. He holds the cap adoringly, and places it onto his own head.</p><p>”Hardship is where the innovation begins, Ritter. I assure you technical details will not hinder the pursuit of science here. So… Please do part those sweet lips of yours and show me how good of an asset you can be for me, or my helpers might have to assist you to do so.”</p><p>Ludger allows his jaw to unclench, raising his brow and giving comrade Valeri’s soft manhood a taunting lick.</p><p>The scientist chuckles in delight and pulls Ludger closer.</p><p>”That’s the spirit, Ritter. You’re so good to me...”</p><p>Before the pilot can answer, a trickle of piss begins dripping against his bruised lips and down his chin. A drop lands on his collar. No! They are not going to taint his uniform. Ludger opens his mouth and lets the prickling liquid flow down his throat before any drop can spill out. It’s hot, and stings like mineral water, and fills his stomach with an upset heat. Comrade Valeri purrs in delight, eyes half-lidded under the shadow of Ritter’s cap.</p><p>”So, so good, aren’t you? So good for me, like you were made for this… My little Dove, my sweet little asset… Keep it all down for me, Ritter, show me you can.”</p><p>Ludger can’t answer, still swallowing sun heat and mineral sparks, eyes watering and throat struggling to accommodate to the constant sensation, but he won’t give up. Won’t let his uniform get wet. Won’t let comrade Valeri see him giving up. Gradually, the flow dies down to a drip. The pilot catches the last drops with the tip of his crimson tongue, zenith heat and electric honey, and grins.</p><p>”Not so strictly professional, are you, comrade? Your body gives you away, I can taste your excitement. You are in heat, comrade Valeri, and you can not lie. So eager to defile me, comrade? And yet, unable. How will you resolve that?”</p><p>”Oh, Ritter, I have my ways to get whatever I want and need from you. And what I want now, is your perfect, voluntary, submission. You will know I hold absolute power over you, and you’ll learn to embrace it.”</p><p>”Over my cold carcass, comrade. You are wasting your time. You may use me for a while, but never own me. Once I’m free of the bounds I’ll pursue my fight once again. End me now and save your precious time, comrade.”</p><p> </p><p>Comrade Valeri shakes his head slowly, gesturing at one of his assets to bring him a chair and sits down with a self-assured smile, fly of his trousers hanging open. The cap on his head is tilted, his legs splayed apart, resting in their shimmering braces, and his hand reaches out in a mockery of aid that the pilot, restrained in place, could not take.</p><p>”Oh, I’ll drag that sweet ’yes’ from your lips, Ritter. Just say so, and all this can end, okay? At any time. It’s all up to you. But if you insist...”</p><p>He shrugs, and leans back in the image of relaxed pleasure.</p><p>”You’ll get to assist me in some scientific endeavours, Ritter. Don’t mind if I document this while we advance, will you?”</p><p>Two pairs of gloved hands grab the Ritter, pulling him up and pushing him against a wall, cold surface behind his back and the mass of masked, faceless soldiers against him. His hands are lifted above his head and bound. Panic is swelling inside him and his too hot stomach stirs.</p><p>Another soldier takes out a camera and aims it towards Ludger, as the ones holding him against the wall turn to Valeri.</p><p>”Such a strong, beautiful form you have, my Dove. How about we see it a little better and do some testing on your endurance?”</p><p>The pilot freezes. The masked soldier’s fingers slither along his shirt and open the buttons with nimble movements, exposing his chest underneath to the cold air. No. No!</p><p>The gloved hands reveal his white chest and linger on his pale nipples, an alien touch that makes him squirm and kick the soldier with a fierce force. The thing doesn't even flinch, pressing its masked head closer to him until their foreheads are almost touching, oily darkness peering into the pilot's eyes, and comrade Valeri chuckles.</p><p>”Sensitive, are you, Ritter? Such fine-tuned instrument, created to observe and record every little thing… Perhaps you should record this too, give me your own account as we proceed, to broaden the study. Tell me, Ritter… is your sensitivity this high on the surface only, or is it the same everywhere?”</p><p>The photographer immortalizes the moment, Ludger’s chest vibrating in a silent gasp and his face turning to the side, teeth bitten into his broken lip, as the soldier in front of him pinches the tender skin of his nipple with steady, mechanical force.</p><p>”I sense you are a bastard beyond the surface, comrade”, Ludger hisses as the assault on his prickling skin continues. The masked soldier pinches his ribs, creating a line of reddening bruises as he goes, travelling across Ludger’s side and down the soft skin of his abdomen until he whines out loud.</p><p>”So reactive, so well calibrated for my research… Now, my Dove, if you’d be so good, your trousers, please? They are unfortunately in the way of the full view.”</p><p>”No! No fucking way! No!”</p><p>The pilot screams and kicks and struggles until two other soldiers restrain him against the wall, smack his face until his nose bleeds all over his dishevelled collar, and land a couple of harsh blows against his stomach. He’s retching and gagging, hanging from his bounds and struggling to kick his enemies still, but they unclasp his belt and open his fly, letting the trousers loosen around his slender hips.</p><p> </p><p>”Look at you, keeping up the fight against my helpers… So beautiful, so strong… You’d make a great asset for me, Ritter, the glorious weapon you are. You are stronger than these assets of mine, more agile, fiercer… The things you could do, were you under my influence. I’d keep you well, Ritter.”</p><p>A blow knocks the air out of the pilot’s lungs and pairs of strong hands drag his uniform trousers around his knees as he struggles to breathe. The camera flashes again, and Ludger lets out a muted scream caught in his constricted throat.</p><p>”Beautiful, my Dove. Beautiful. Let’s see what’s under those briefs, shall we? Must be just as finely crafted as the rest of you. And what’s this? Responding to our little experiment already? Aren’t you eager, Ritter.”</p><p>No! No! No! Ludger attempts to scream and struggle but his knees are jerking and his stomach is cramping and the strong, gloved hands pull his briefs down with little effort. His quivering flesh tingles and stings from the friction, cold and sudden exposure, and he staggers back against the wall.</p><p>Comrade Valeri offers him a content, laid-back smile, waving at the photographer to get closer. In his hand, he softly rolls an exquisite fountain pen, resting it against his lips in thought before he speaks.</p><p>”Tell me, Ritter, once you have caught your breath of course… Would you describe yourself experienced in intimate relations, or will I have the honour to guide you on the field?”</p><p>Ludger screams, the sound ripping through his throat and leaving him gagging, but the soldier in front of him doesn’t flinch, instead leaning closer against his slender body and laying a hand on his naked hip.</p><p>”Oh, don’t worry, there’s no shame if this is unfamiliar to you, Ritter. More for us to explore and study, don’t you think? Just relax and embrace the process, okay? This might even prove to be pleasurable.”</p><p> </p><p>The force in front of Ludger is immovable, and he bashes his head against the wall instead, again and again, until he tastes the hollow copper at the back of his throat. The soldier stops him, wrapping a hand behind his neck in an almost tender fashion and holding his hair.</p><p>”Now, now, my Dove, there’s no need to be anxious. You’ll certainly be taken utmost care of. Please do relax and allow my assets to help, this moment of hesitation will surely be a thing of the past soon.”</p><p>”No!” The pilot screams, squirming as the masked soldier presses its forehead against his.</p><p>”No! You want something out of me?! Prepare to extract it from my broken bones!”</p><p>”Shh, Ritter, there’s no need of such thing... All I want from you is exactly this, you, right here, just like this. I’ll take care of everything. Oh, and I thought you might find one of my little inventions quite interesting.”</p><p>Comrade Valeri gestures at the masked soldier, a smile still flickering across his lips, and tilts his head.</p><p>”These helpers of mine, you see… Are not bound by the limitations of the human form. There’s a wondrous beauty to that, isn’t there, Ritter?”</p><p>The soldier opens its fly with mechanical motions, one hand still holding on to Ludger’s hair with a steady grasp. Swirling, shimmery shadow pours out, and the pilot gasps. It’s a bloom of twisted darkness, slick and black like a starless sky, morphing and slithering into impossible shapes. The scream gets stuck in Ludger’s throat as the soldier turns its gaze of liquid coal and flowing smoke back towards him and lays its gloved hands on his hips in an eerily gentle motion.</p><p>”Isn’t it wonderful, Ritter? So pure, so efficient… A tool fine enough for handling my treasured asset with raw power, and yet, immense finesse.”</p><p>The pilot finds his voice again, screaming incoherently as the tendrils of darkness run across his exposed skin, cold like medical instruments and hot like a passionate touch. They study him carefully, mapping every piece of skin on his abdomen and memorizing each scar, and comrade Valeri hums in satisfaction.</p><p>”Wonderful… Wonderful, my Dove. Oh, how good you are for me, how finely made of an asset. And what’s this?”</p><p>The innumerable fingers of darkness brush over Ludger’s ribs, climb under his shirt and embrace him, prodding and studying everything on their way. They pause at the scar on his back, where his spine is bent and his vertebrae are fused wrong.</p><p>”Some fool trying to make you bend with senseless force? I am sure, my little Dove, that it needn’t come to that, unless...”</p><p>The pilot bites his tongue and silences his screams, eyes wide.</p><p>”Good boy… That’s good. Thank you, Ritter.” Valeri purrs.</p><p>The tendrils roam freely across Ludger’s shivering body, and the soldier steadily breathes with a raspy whirr, holding him like a lover, as the darkness makes its way between his legs.</p><p>”Mmmh… So soft, delicate, and yet, so strong. What a lovely specimen you are, Ritter, and what a lovely asset you’ll be. Allow us to continue with the test, and please, don’t be shy for the camera, the material is all for my research.”</p><p>The tentacles swirl across the quivering skin and study him with even, unrelenting force, slick and careful, yet unstoppable. They prod his clenched hole, wrap around his manhood, grow around his hips, and comrade Valeri smiles at him benevolently.</p><p>”Thank you, Ritter, for participating so well. We’re doing this together, aren’t we?”</p><p>Ritter bites his tongue until it bleeds, strains of scarlet dripping from between his clenched jaw, eyes burning with tears and rage as he lifts his eyes with defiance.</p><p>”It’s okay… It’s okay to be a little shy. You’ll talk to me soon enough, Ritter. And once you do, I’ll listen to every word and every cry.”</p><p>The unrelenting tentacles, smooth like glass, rub circles around the pilot’s entrance, pressure increasing steadily as he tries to struggle and tighten against the intrusion.</p><p>”Shh, Ritter, it’s okay… Just breathe for me, you’ll feel better very soon.”</p><p>A thin dark tendril slithers inside, expanding and shivering, and Ludger has to gasp for air, his muscles giving in and giving way for the intrusion as he pants in a panicked haze, sweat breaking on his skin. Comrade Valeri looks at him over the masked soldier’s shoulder, lips parted and a blush creeping under the peaked cap’s shadow.</p><p>”That’s it, Ritter... That’s it... Stop resisting and trust me, my Dove...”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter will be subject to updating and editing, please stand by.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can call me names in the comments or something if you want.</p><p>There was a plead for civility here but forget it, please let me know if you fapped, want me lynched, or both. &lt;3</p><p>Author's Twitter : @RedMarker10</p><hr/><p>Craving for more pilots in distress behind enemy lines? Want to adventure one hemisphere over, in the searing sun of the Pacific? <i>Feeling hots for robots?</i></p><p><i>Pacific Haze</i> can scratch that itch, and much much more ! A Japanese pilot finds himself in the claws of an Allied combat android, blood and oil-soaked adventure on a collision course with a future far too bright...<br/>Tropical setting, warfare hell, allegiances breaking down to forge much stronger bonds and mythical undertones standing to attention !</p><p>Check it out over there!<br/>archiveofourown.org/works/30558624/</p></blockquote></div></div>
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